


Don't Miss Your Water

by ACometAppears, nightmaresinwintah



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (although there's weapons in just about every chapter), (not that it's mentioned?), AU, Alternate Universe, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blood, Bucky Barnes in Bucharest, Bucky gets Drugged, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Home Invasion, Lunch Dates, M/M, Meaningful Tattoos, Modern-Day Steve Rogers, Non-Serum Steve Rogers, Pancakes, Panic Attacks, Pansexual Bucky Barnes, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Puppers!, Sensory Deprivation, Tattoo Artist Steve Rogers, Tattooed Bucky Barnes, Tattooed Steve Rogers, Trans Steve Rogers, Violence, Weaponry, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, and now: the nice tags, bedtime cuddles, but Steve ain't shrinky?, shrinkyclinks, there will be warnings at the start of each chapter for:, transphobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-10-26 05:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10780521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: In a world where Steve Rogers is a tattoo artist in the twentieth century and Bucky Barnes is the Winter Soldier struggling to find his place in the future, the two of them seem less inclined to bump into each other than in the original story. But in this reality, two soulmates find each other through homeless kittens, a tattoo festival and a whole bunch of blushing and crushing. (Both romantically and literally, on Bucky's part.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hi hi hey. So, when I first signed up for the RBB, I had only done one previous Big Bang and a few other little Bangs here and there. Coming into this I was excited but nervous, because I was going to be taking an artists work and spinning a whole interpretation of it - creating a world in collaboration with them. I really like to work closely in collaborations, but if the other isn't so keen then that's fine too. Lucky for me, I claimed piece #91 and it's one of the best things that's happened to me. 
> 
> Piece [#91](http://i.imgur.com/SH8uxhB.jpg), or as I've re-named it in my head, 'yes, good, so good' is a work of art created by the breath-takingly talented artist Jb. [ACometAppears](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears) on AO3 and [jackbrogers](https://jackbrogers.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. During the months I've been working on this fic for our collaboration inspired by their art I've had the absolute time of my life. Jb is freaking awesome. They've helped me with ideas, with motivation, with the whole fic and being supportive in general. We've hashed out different scenes in the fic and some of the more sensitive ones they've helped me with topics I was unsure about dealing with the right way. They've been understanding and wonderful and honestly, Jb, all I can say is _thank you._ This wouldn't be here without you! I can genuinely be proud of the fic we've created. And I'm so happy I've made a good friend along the way!
> 
> So, carrying on in a similar tune, this whole fic is definitely a collaboration and it would not be here as it is without Jb and without the RBB, for that matter. I am so so glad I got the privilege to get work #91 during claims. Thank you to Jb for bein' you and creating such a beautiful work of art and idea, to the RBB mods (you're amazing!), to Bonny ( [grandmastattoo](http://grandmastattoo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr) for being my wonderful beta, to my laptop for bein' chill and not overheating during the hours I've spent with twenty tabs open while writing and researching, to you, the reader, for being here and reading this and to Steve and Bucky who have been my outlet for a long, long time. 
> 
> Title is from the song ['Don't Miss Your Water' by Otis Redding](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3dHaMV_eXko).
> 
> NSFW warning for Jb's art you're about to see! This whole fic started with that gorgeous work :)
> 
> Without further ado, on to the fic :)

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Prologue**

_Nights are slow. Dark. Clouds roll across the ceiling and thunder roils through the air, writhing and screaming. Always, lightning shatters through thick, overheated static. Always, the sweating, convulsing body curled up on the mattress below the storm uncoils and reaches for a gun. Always, he points, aims, and has a finger hovering over the trigger. He never shoots. He doesn’t need to, because there’s never anyone there._

Nights are long.

Bucky’s chest is heaving, and he slowly takes account of how much his body’s shaking. He drops his shoulders, rolling out of the fighting stance and stepping back over to the mattress on the floor. He puts the gun back under the pillow, and sits back down, on the defense. The hairs on the back of his neck are prickling, but he knows that if he looks up, the storm of his dreams will have gone. The air is still heavy with lingering thunderclaps, though.

He takes a deep breath, and slowly folds his limbs into a lotus pose. He slumps forwards, wrists crossing over, and stares straight ahead. He can feel himself drifting back into the dream—memory—and he imagines it like mist swirling out of his head. It was two people, this time, an older couple. For the man: he bashed his face in and placed him against the wheel of their crashed car, insinuating that he’d fallen victim to the momentum of the crash. For the woman: he grasped her fragile neck and ended her life that way, staring out over the roof of the car.

In the present, the moon leaks in through the open window, soft night air running its fingers through the sheer curtains and almost playfully brushing past his face. It stings, the cold. He nearly lets himself revel in it, but he’s been feeling the cold, the pain, the _him_ for a while now. He doesn’t need to focus on the little things. Instead, he lets the cool breeze swirl around him, raising goosebumps on his shoulders, and uses it to focus.

He takes another deep breath and closes his eyes. He lets the images swirl through his mind for as long as they need to and then when he opens his eyes, they billow out of him like escaping darkness. He files the memory away and doesn’t add the victims to the growing number. He stopped doing that three months ago. He’s staring straight ahead, still drifting and lost. His eyes won’t focus on anything in particular. He won’t sleep again tonight, he knows.

Nights are tedious.

He lifts up his flesh hand and wipes at the tear rolling down his cheek, brushing it away with tenderness he doesn’t deserve. Another deep breath. He hasn’t slept through the night since after—after the helicarriers, when he’d crashed for eighteen hours straight. And here, now, nearly two years later, he’s gotten most of his mind back together.

Instead of trying—uselessly—to get back to sleep, he rolls out of his pose and sinks onto the floor to begin the nightly workout routine. It takes five minutes to drown himself in it and he goes until the sun comes up and takes away the shadows and dark bruises of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	2. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for these chapters include;
> 
> \- Improper eating habits/talk of eating disorders  
> \- Someone's home (their safe place) being invaded  
> \- Someone being tattooed  
> \- Dissociation  
> \- Flashbacks

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter One**

The night had gone much like every other before it.

Bucky’s only just finished up a slow workout and is standing under the shower with its shitty water pressure, scrubbing shampoo into his hair. Afterwards he ties a towel around his waist and takes a deep breath, ready to start the day. He has his routine down pat and it’s what’s helped him start to pull the pieces of himself together. It goes as such:

Breakfast, first. In the beginning, he’d still had nutrition needles left over. He’d used them all up within two weeks and then he’d had to go out looking. It had taken him an entire week to be able to keep something down and another month for that to be anything other than crackers and protein powder shit. He slowly drifted towards things that are easy; granola bars or toast. If he’s feeling particularly capable, he’ll make something like porridge or fruit salad. He’s discovered he loves fruit salad.

This morning is not so good, but it’s better than bad. He grabs an apple and begins chopping it into little pieces. He pops it bit by bit into his mouth as he cuts them and chucks the core into the little bin he has in the corner when he’s done. He’ll eat a granola bar before he leaves.

After breakfast comes dressing for the day. It’d taken him two entire weeks to be able to take his boots off. He’d only done it because that was the same amount of time it took him to realise he hadn’t bathed or showered in...a while. He was so used to just being hosed down. So he’d found a hostel—he’d still been on the streets then—and showered for much longer than the allotted time. No one had bothered him, though, and he’d gotten out slowly—only after the water had gone cold. He’d redressed in his casual tac gear—sweater over Kevlar over threadbare shirt, combat pants and boots. It’s still his favourite outfit, as it can hide the most weapons.

Now, though, he straps on several sheathes; under arms, ankles, inner forearm, the sides of his ribs. Over them he pulls on a black shirt and a heavy jersey on over that. And then jeans _._ He only has one pair, but that’s because they’re expensive and he likes staying here. Stealing would only draw attention and then he would have to leave. Clothes are harder to steal than necessities. He still wears his boots. He pulls on a cap for good measure.

After dressing comes weapons. He settles down at his table and chooses his knives for the day. This outfit allows less bulky weapons, so he can only fit one glock to his body in a holster strapped to the middle of his back. Knives are easier. He tucks them into their sheathes, immediately feeling safer with their weight. He’s started carrying less, lately, because after so much time he’s realised that the amount of weapons he carried before on a daily basis was over-excessive. And with the arm it’s much easier staying calm when he straps less than ten knives to his body. He almost stops expecting to need them.

After weapons come the gloves. He pulls one on over the metal hand, flexes his fist against the leather. Being able to look at the arm without feeling his stomach turn over is a new thing, too. He’s only recently accepted it as more than just a weapon. It’s _his._ A part of him. He slips the other glove on over his flesh hand and moves over to the counter of his tiny kitchen.

He takes his notebook and writes down the events of the night. His memories, his dreams. It doesn’t take long. He makes the notes brief. They used to be long, messy, and in all different languages. He’s managing to stick mostly to English, nowadays. Russian still slips in there, though, and Romanian. But he lets himself use the excuse of using Romanian almost daily to explain that one.

Boots making absolutely no noise on the floor, he grabs the money from the counter and tucks it into his pockets, along with a granola bar like he promised himself. He grabs his key from the hook and leaves the apartment, locking it behind him.

His routine doesn’t extend much farther than that, but he’s not lost. The days fluctuate and change. There is something new everyday. And it _excites_ him. He looks forwards to each day. He knows he’s lulled himself into a false sense of security, what with how long it’s been without an incident. But that’s okay. He’s still ready. It’s just, when it happens—the inevitable—he knows it’s going to hurt. He’s going to miss this place.

See, he’s made connections here. He’s put down roots. Romanian flows from his tongue as easily as English and Russian and the people at the markets know him. He thinks he has _friends._ There’s Amalia, the kind grey-haired lady who sits at the spice stall all day. He knows about her family, her daughter who is ‘too kind for her own good’, and her husband who comes home drunk more often than not. There’s Dumitru, who helped him find his apartment because Bucky had helped him out with a spare few leus and they got talking. They both loyally shop at Viorel’s fruit stall.

He’s headed to that fruit stall today; he needs to replenish his fruit bowl and catching up with Viorel always makes it a good day. The way to the markets is the same as it always is—main streets, side streets, back streets. He’s down one of the side streets, walking past an alley he sees nearly every day, when he hears a particularly loud _merow?_ It makes him pause, attention on the alley, listening for the sound again. It comes a moment later, louder than before.  

He’s found a cat, because of course he has. It’s sitting on top of a dumpster, staring at him with owlish orange eyes and flicking its tail around as though irritated. It looks thin, though it’s fur is surprisingly well-kept. Bucky blinks and steps into the alley, tilting his head to one side as he considers. The cat _merows_ at him again, standing up.

There’s an answering meow this time, in the form of a high-pitched _mew, mew, mew._

Bucky stops, eyes catching the movement behind the dumpster. He’s found a _mama cat._ He can’t help but crouch down to check on the kittens, reaching his flesh hand out for them to sniff at. They’re young, but they’re able to wobble around on their feet as he scratches one of them behind the ears.

The mama cat is glaring at him like he’s supposed to do something about their situation. Bucky glowers back. “I can’t take care of _all_ of you,” he mutters, voice scratchy from disuse. It’s true. He’s not even allowed one pet in his apartment. He’s got no idea what to do. He can’t just _leave_ them here, but he can’t take them with him, either.

“Are you alright?”

Bucky looks up, startled. He whips around, still in a crouch but poised to bolt at any second. But it’s just a man at the end of the alley way, looking concerned. “Fine,” Bucky replies, finding his voice.

The man’s dressed relatively normally, not at all like he’s carrying weapons, but you never know. Bucky narrows his eyes in consideration, regretting it the moment the man takes a step back, eyes flickering from him to the kittens and back again. Bucky presses his lips together, wondering how to make this situation better. “Do you like cats?” he asks.

The man doesn’t answer, looking wary. Bucky tries again, a little less threatening. He hopes. “Do you want some kittens?” He pauses for a moment, before elaborating at the man’s exasperated expression. “The mama cat led me to them. I can’t look after them. But now I’m involved. And so are you.”

The man relaxes a little, a tiny smile even working its way onto his face. Bucky stays sitting, because he doesn’t want to scare him and ruin his chances of manipulating him into adopting four kittens and a mama cat.

“I, uh, guess I could help you take them to an adoption place. I’m sure there’s one around here,” the man answers. His voice is smooth and the tenor of it isn’t something Bucky expected coming out of him.

Bucky hums and reaches over behind the dumpster to grab the box he’d been eyeing up. He places the kittens inside and picks up the mama cat, who growls lowly at him in protest. She’s digging her claws in, but it’s his metal arm, so he doesn’t really notice. He can just see her paws clenching. “It’s fate,” he says drily, and offers the box to the man. “I didn’t think of that.”

The man takes the box, looking slightly bewildered, like he’s not too sure about what’s happening. He probably didn’t plan for this today. At all. “Uh, thanks. Um. I’m sure it’s not too far from here, would you mind carrying the mom?” he asks, cringing like he regrets everything.

Bucky wonders if the man really wants him following him around and helping hunt down an adoption place. He guesses no, but. “Sure,” he complies and adjusts the mama cat in his arms so she’s more comfortable. “I’m Bucky,” he adds after a thought.

“Steve,” the man replies, and begins leading the way out of the alley.

Bucky takes the vaguely awkward silence to observe Steve out of the corner of his eye. He’s a bit smaller than Bucky realised, now that Bucky’s standing up, though he’s quite muscled. He holds himself tall, projecting an air of confidence. There’s a layer of scruff running along his jaw like he’d forgotten to shave this morning and Bucky thinks he can see the beginnings of tattoos peeking out from underneath Steve’s long sleeves. He’s got incredible blue eyes—which keep glancing down at the kittens with the expression of someone who is completely bewildered.

There’s an adoption place not far, like Steve said. They find one around the block and go inside. Bucky shifts the mama cat in his arms and she goes tense, growling under her breath again, glaring about the place. Bucky glowers at her, before turning to Steve. “Uh, will I need to pay for anything?” he asks, suddenly worrying.

“Nope, we’re just dropping them off.” Steve replies, looking around for a staff member.

Bucky feels his shoulders drop in relief. It’s only when the staff member comes out and starts speaking Romanian does Bucky realise he and Steve have been conversing in English this entire time. They get the cats sorted and leave the adoption center, Steve gesturing for Bucky to go first through the door.

“So, do you live in Bucharest?” Steve asks.

Bucky shrugs. “For now, yeah. What about you?” He’s curious, okay? Steve doesn’t seem like a local and he didn’t seem to understand much of what the staff member was saying in Romanian but you never know.

“Nah, I’m here with the Seven Lions Tattoo Festival,” Steve replies, a grin sliding onto his face.

Bucky almost has to take a step back at the brightness that shines from Steve as he mentions his work. “I saw the signs for that. Are you a tattoo artist?” he asks. He’d been pleasantly surprised to learn how common tattoos were now and even more intrigued to learn how good the art has gotten.

“Yup! Have been since I was a teenager. I’ve always loved art, started getting some on me as soon as I turned eighteen,” Steve gushes.

Bucky nods, glancing down at where the ink is poking out from Steve’s sleeves. He doesn’t ask, though. He knows what it’s like, being asked about something like the other person has any right to know. He’ll learn about Steve’s tattoos if Steve wants him to. He realises with a start that it’s incredibly _easy_  to talk to Steve. He’s surprised that he wants to keep doing so. “Have you seen much of Bucharest?” he asks.

Steve shakes his head. “We arrived late yesterday and we’ve got till evening today that we’re free, then we’re opening the gates tomorrow. It runs through the weekend—you should come check it out,” he says, patting at his pockets. He pulls out a flyer and offers it to Bucky.

Bucky smiles and takes it, looking it over. “I might just have to. Have you seen the markets yet?”

“Nope.”

Bucky considers, biting on the inside of his cheek. “Would you like to?”

Steve’s nodding already, looking intrigued. “Yeah, sure,” he says with a smile. “I heard they’re something you’ve _got_ to visit if you’re in Bucharest.” He’s very clearly quoting someone.

Bucky huffs out a little laugh, almost startled as he does it. “You could say that. It’s certainly something a little different from America,” he replies, though he’s got no idea what America’s like in the future. Viorel tells him tourists like taking their time to look at all the stalls though, that they always seem amazed at what is everyday life for those who work there.

“Lead the way,” Steve gestures down the street and Bucky grins, stepping in the right direction.

He thinks he’s found another friend.

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Two**

The festival, when Bucky arrives, is absolutely packed. Crowds are incredibly uncomfortable but he’s so used to having to blend in on certain missions that he just keeps his head down and finds his way. During the time he and Steve were at the market—Steve looking at everything and anything and Bucky buying his fruit from Viorel—he’d managed to get Steve’s stall number so he could find him easily in the masses.

According to Steve, there are over one hundred artists floating around within the festival, all offering to put their art on people's bodies. From what Bucky can see it’s mostly tattoos that are already drawn up, though some people are discussing commissions. He keeps getting distracted by the sights of people getting tattooed and he keeps tuning into certain conversations but eventually he finds Steve’s stall.

He pauses before making himself known; Steve’s talking animatedly with a man as large as Bucky, head crowned with a bowler hat and face decorated with a rather magnificent mustache. The guy’s laugh is boisterous and _loud,_ but something about it makes Bucky want to smile. Steve’s stall has a sterile end—there’s a chair, a shelf full of needles and machines and ink and the tattoo table. The other end of the stall is a table covered in stacked portfolios and sheets of loose paper; most of which is adorned with both blackwork and full-colour art.

Bucky waits for a lull in the conversation before slipping into sight, his cap pushed back on his head to show his face. Steve catches sight of him first and Bucky feels his stomach flip-flop at the bright grin that lights up Steve’s face. It’s been a long, _long_ time since anyone’s reacted like this to seeing him.

“Bucky!” Steve exclaims, stepping around the table to greet him. “You’ve found your way,” he says.

Bucky smiles. “I have. Nice place you’ve got here,” Bucky replies, eyes flickering to the man standing behind the table still. The guy is looking him over, clearly sizing him up, wondering who he is and how he knows Steve.

Steve huffs out a laugh, glancing around the mentioned stall. “It’s not half bad. Makes me miss home, though,” he shrugs, running a hand through his hair. It makes him look bashful and Bucky finds himself wondering if Steve’s hair is soft.

He shakes himself internally, casts his attention to the man behind the table again. “We haven’t met,” he says. “I’m Bucky.”

Steve spins around, cheeks turning a soft pink colour. “Oh, shit, sorry guys. Bucky, this is Timothy Dugan, but we call him Dum Dum. He’s with Seven Lions. Dum Dum, this is Bucky. He’s the guy with the kittens,” Steve introduces them.

Timothy ‘Dum Dum’ Dugan raises a bushy eyebrow and snorts, a grin taking over his face. “Pleasure,” he drawls, inclining his head Bucky’s way.

Bucky nods back, smiling now that the ice is broken. He turns back to Steve. “‘The guy with the kittens?’” he quotes.

This is where Bucky learns it’s incredibly easy to make Steve blush. “Uh -” Steve gets out, pink cheeks turning darker. “I mean, I had to explain you somehow,” he tries.

Bucky finds that being described as the guy with the kittens feels a lot better than the guy with the big guns and scary mask. He smiles and he knows it’s reaching his eyes; he can feel the happiness curling in his stomach, too. The smile curves into a sly grin. “You were talking about me?” he asks, even though he knows it’s a little mean putting Steve on the spot like this.

Steve flails, his jaw opening and closing and his cheeks flaming even redder. Dum Dum lets out a giant rasp of a cackle that tapers off into wheezing. “He’s got you there, Cap,” he says, clapping a hand over Steve’s shoulders and stepping around the table. “Anyways, I’m off, break’s over!” And then he’s off, lumbering out of the stall and down the walkways. People seem to know to part for him.

Bucky lingers on the ‘Cap’ for a moment, wondering, before refocusing on Steve, who’s still red. Bucky takes pity on him. “Sorry,” he hums, folding his shoulders forward. “The opportunity was there.”

“It’s fine, I set myself up for that one,” Steve shrugs, rubbing at one of his wrists. He pushes up his sleeve at the same time, revealing more inked skin. Bucky can’t help but let his eyes linger on it for a moment longer than necessary before dragging his attention to the art-covered table. Steve must sense his questions, because he moves over to it, smiling. “These are mostly flash sheets, though some are sketches or beginnings of commissions,” he explains.

Bucky follows him over, intrigued and wanting a closer look. “These are all yours?” he asks, hearing the awe in his own voice. “They’re amazing.”

Steve’s blushing. Bucky doesn’t even have to look. He knows. Bucky takes his time poring over the art, drawn to some of the more colourful pieces. There are a lot of different themes although the style is so clearly Steve’s; it’s pleasingly recognisable. Bucky can feel Steve’s eyes on him, can almost feel the nervous energy coming his way. As if Bucky would ever say anything other than the truth about his art.

“How long have you been doing this for?” Bucky asks, reaching out with gloved fingers to move a piece and reveal the one underneath it.

Steve shrugs, attention following Bucky’s movements. “Years and years. I’ve always been drawing, but I started my apprenticeship as a tattoo artist nearly ten years ago,” he says.

Bucky hums, picking up one of the pieces that’s drawn his eye. It’s simple; a bright and bold poppy. He pours over every inch of it, finds himself finding a place for it on his body. Poppies are for remembrance. Poppies are for the fallen. Poppies are for the soldiers. He knows this. He clenches his jaw and sets the piece back down, dragging his attention back up to Steve.

Steve’s staring right back at him, a crease between his eyebrows, his lips pressed into a thin line. He seems to search Bucky’s face like there’s something in particular he’s looking for. Bucky holds his gaze, feels his expression shutter off. Steve blinks and looks down, an apologetic smile flickering over his face.

“I’ve got someone coming to get tattooed soon. You’re welcome to stay and watch if they’re okay with it,” Steve says, changing the subject seamlessly.

Bucky breathes out a sigh of relief, turning away from the table. “I’d love to. I haven’t seen the process before.”

“Really? You’re not squeamish about needles, are you?” Steve asks.

Bucky nearly chokes at the irony, quickly suppressing the flinch. He wants to laugh but it would come out bitter and wrong. “Nope. Just the stuff in them.” He wants to take it back immediately, but it’s out there, floating awkwardly between them.

Steve raises an eyebrow like he wants to ask. “Nothing but ink here,” he says, moving over to the other side of the stall and grabbing a bottle of hand sanitizer.  

Bucky chuckles, finding his way over to one of the seats decorating the floor space. He sits down, folding his ankles and watching Steve prepare for the customer. Steve’s gathering various things and setting them out on a little wheely table; gloves, reference papers, tattoo gun, ink caps and paper towels. He also pushes up his sleeves as he gets ready, drawing Bucky’s attention to the inked skin.

Bucky catches sight of red-and-blue encasing Steve’s right forearm in a way that resembles and big and bold shield. He thinks he sees a white star on the outer forearm but he’s not sure. He finds himself wanting to take a closer look but he doesn’t ask, instead averts his eyes and looks across the walkway into another artists stall.

Steve must glance up, because he sees Bucky looking. “That’s Dernier over there,” he says. “If you ever want to find him, follow the fire.” Steve snickers, and when Bucky glances at him, Steve’s grinning down at his workspace, the expression on his face telling Bucky there’s a whole story behind that.

“Do you know a lot of the people here?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods. “I know everyone’s faces and names, but there’s only a few I know personally.” He pauses, looking up to meet Bucky’s gaze. “There’s—it’s a long, long story, but when Seven Lions started, it was just six of us. We have quite a bit of history,” he admits, his face twisting into an expression of deep thought. Deep fondness flickers through his eyes and Bucky has to look away.

“A story for another time?” Bucky suggests.

Steve blinks, coming back to the present. He smiles, nodding. “Yeah. My customer’s here now, too,” he says, gesturing to a woman walking towards them.

Bucky watches Steve greet her, watches them chat for a moment about the piece Steve’s created for her and Bucky wonders. There’s something in the way Steve holds himself that makes Bucky think he knows something of the pain and horror this world has to offer. _._ He wonders if he really wants to know the story. He wonders, once again, how much time he has left till he has to run again.

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Three**

The walk to the markets is one that has him distracted, something like alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind.

It’s a Sunday and the markets are bustling, people winding through the stalls, picking up fruits and vegetables and the other hundreds of things being sold. Bucky’s headed in to pick up some fruit from Viorel’s stall and to drop by to chat to Amalia, who’s situated nextdoor. He’s got his leus in his pocket along with a switchblade. There’s a smile lingering on his face that Amalia points out with a withered hand and a cheeky grin, her keen eyes glittering with mischief.

Bucky just winks at her and hands over a few extra leus as he takes his plums and says his goodbyes, turning to head home. There’s something in the air that has had him on edge all day and as he walks away from Amalia’s stall his stomach knots up into a ball. He slows down to a stop, freezing completely at the sound of sirens quickly approaching.

He feigns waiting to cross the road, body coiled and ready to run the moment something seems out of place.

The sirens race past him, turning the corner and continuing down the road.

A relieved breath leaves him and he turns, almost shaking his head at himself. He’s been careful. It’s been two years and although that doesn’t mean they’re not still looking for him, he figures he’s pretty safe here. It must be the thought of them finding him that’s still got his heart racing and his blood thrumming in his veins, because he can’t calm down as he takes stock of his surroundings, just to be sure he’s safe.

There’s a man at the newspaper stall staring at him with a look of abject terror on his face.

A jolt of adrenalin pulses through Bucky, the feeling akin to an electric shock. He’s moving immediately, fists clenched in his pockets. The bag of fruit at his side knocks against his legs and his footsteps are jolted as he weaves through the crowd. The man—the man is running.

Bucky snatches the newspaper laid out at the stall, looking it over in a hurry. He— _the Winter Soldier_ —is on the front page. He’s set off a bomb in Vienna. He feels sick to his stomach. He didn’t—surely he _didn’t_ —no one used the codewords. There’s no way. It’s not possible. The—the person on the front _must_ be an impersonator. That’s _not him._

He’s panicking, he knows. He needs to be calm. He needs to think straight. He glances around the markets, aware he’s drawing attention to himself. People’s gazes are lingering. He needs to get out of here.

He doesn’t run, but it’s a near thing. He heads directly for his apartment, gets in and retrieves his emergency backpack from underneath the floorboards. He’s going to have to make some changes to his appearance, he’s going to have to leave Romania. It’d be best if he went to ground, laid low for at least a year to be safe. It’s either that or taking wind and keep moving, never staying in one place for too long.

He—he doesn’t dare let himself pause. He doesn’t let himself begin mourning the loss of the life he’s built here. Not yet.

He does take a few precious seconds to shove the notebook on his kitchen counter into the backpack, along with his plums and the few chocolate and granola bars on the table. He gathers up his weapons, crams them in as well and then gets the hell out of dodge. He can hear armed people coming up the stairwell so he exits through the window, leaping down to the ledge below, careful of his landing.

The danger is prickling under his skin, sending his heart into a frenzy and making it a challenge for him to focus. He needs to avoid all cameras—he _knows_ a facial recogniser would have been his downfall. He needs to avoid all human life, honestly. He needs to get out of Romania as soon as he can, but he’ll need to give it at least a few hours. They’ll have the public transport down on lock. There will be people watching the cameras 24/7 for at least the next few weeks.

He feels trapped, backed right into a corner and he hates it. _He’d just been trying to rebuild his life._

There’s an alcove across the street and he takes cover in it, leaning against the wall and staring up at his apartment window. He watches his apartment—his own space, his safe place—get raided, overturned and wrecked. His _things_ are in there, the life he’d begun to build. It feels, horribly, like a piece of himself has been pulled out of his chest and turned to ash on the ground before him.

He tears his eyes away, horrified to realise his face is wet.

He wipes angrily at his cheeks and sets off, not daring to look back at the place that is no longer his home. He feels cold. His ears are ringing but there is no noise in his mind, only icy detachment. He feels dizzy. Sick. _Lost._

The next four hours are spent in a daze, ducking into alleys and twitching nervously, flinching like a frightened cat at every loud noise or siren. He tries to formulate a plan but he’s still reeling from being thrown in the deep end with no warning. Every shop he walks past that has a TV is playing some form of news station talking about the Winter Soldier. He somehow manages to keep his breakfast down.

There is a cart across the street selling flowers. He can smell the geraniums from here. It grounds him.

He is walking alongside a river, he realises. The ripples atop the water distract him, for a moment. They remind him of serenity—the peace that comes with going with the flow. The water itself makes him think of the pipes that used to run along the ceiling of a cell. The ripples blur that out; they distract him, make his mind turn down a different lane and calm him down.

With a start, Bucky realises he is a five minute walk away from where the Seven Lions Festival is being held. Afternoon is slowly turning to evening, which means there will be very few people left at the festival. And who would expect the Winter Soldier to be hiding out at a tattoo convention with his new friend?

He takes one more look at the rippling water before crossing the street and heading towards the festival. He thinks he has an idea of where he’s headed when he leaves Romania.

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Four**

Steve is surprised yet pleased to see him and it makes Bucky wonder if he had been expected to show up earlier. It sends a pleasant shiver down Bucky’s spine, creates a fizzing sensation in his stomach. He’d come up with an idea on the way to Steve’s stall, one he thinks he’s going to a have little bit of trouble getting Steve to agree to.

“How was your day?” Steve’s asking, having stopped cleaning up his stall in order to greet Bucky with a sunshine grin.

Bucky doesn’t dare let it show that Steve’s words are like a kick to the gut. “Could have been better,” he allows. He thinks maybe some of it is showing on his face; Steve looks vaguely concerned.

“Oh? Well, what brings you back here?” Steve asks, gesturing to a chair for Bucky to sit in.

Bucky sinks right into it, huffing out a breath. He feels like putty, melting against the backrest and letting his eyes go half-mast. He realises now how exhausted he is. The shock has worn off and has been replaced with resignation. “Maybe I just wanted to see you again,” he murmurs, forcing himself to sit up a bit and look more alert.

“I’m fine with that,” Steve replies, smiling at him, a faint rosy colour dusting high on his cheeks.

Bucky offers a crooked smile, glancing around them, just checking they’re still safe. “And maybe I want a tattoo,” he admits, crossing his ankles. He realises he’s fidgeting and uncrosses them, hooking his ankles around the chair legs.

Steve’s eyes light up, excitement immediately coursing through the lines of his body as he perks up. “You’ve got one in mind?” he prompts, subconsciously leaning forwards.

So what if Bucky finds it endearing. “Yup.” He reaches up to run gloved fingers over the planes of his cheekbones. “Here, just some wavy lines,” he says, mind going back to the ripples on the water. The freedom they represent. The freedom this will give him from most of the facial recognition scanners.

When Bucky refocuses on Steve’s face, Steve looks skeptical. Bucky raises an eyebrow in question. Steve rubs a palm down his forearm, looking sheepish. “Would be this your first tattoo?” he asks, his voice sounding more professional than friendly.

And Bucky gets it, he does. He just doesn’t know how to explain exactly why he wants these tattoos without giving too much away. “Yeah, they would be. But I’m sure, Steve,” he says.

“Look, not to sound patronising,” Steve actually looks _pained_ at the idea, “but these things are permanent and getting a face tattoo as your first tattoo isn’t the best of ideas.”

Buckys nods, sucking on his bottom lip as he thinks. “It represents freedom,” he starts. Steve raises an eyebrow, looking intrigued. Bucky sighs. “I’m not - I wasn’t always -” he takes a deep breath and tries again. “They mean more than just freedom. They will remind me of who I am.” His voice is growing quieter, eyes not meeting Steve’s anymore. “They will remind me that _I’m_ free now. And that I’m never going back to - _them_. And I want the tattoos on my face where everyone can see so they know, too. I’m free.”

It’s not giving Steve much, but there’s a suspicious sheen to Steve’s eyes and the look on his face tells Bucky he’s jumped to conclusions. “Like warpaint,” Steve murmurs, a calculating look passing over his expression. Bucky lets him think. “I’ll draw up a design and then we’ll see if we’re doing them, okay?” Steve says, already reaching for his pen and paper.

Bucky nods, eyes drifting to their surroundings again. There aren’t many stalls still open, just a few people hanging around. Steve doesn’t take long to draw up a sketch, his hand flying over the paper and pretty quickly the shape of a face takes place, the wavy lines Bucky had described in the perfect position. They’re situated at the apples of the face’s cheeks, pulling back towards the sides of the face, gliding along the cheekbones and upper cheek.

“Yes,” Bucky says, subconsciously sliding to the edge of his seat. “Steve, can—I have the money here, please, will you do them?” he asks, voice taking on a note of pleading.

Steve still looks skeptical, eyes trained on the drawing, but when he looks up the expression slides away. He searches Bucky’s face and seems to find what he’s looking for because he nods, standing up and moving over to his wheely shelf. “You’re absolutely sure?” he asks, glancing back.

“Yes,” Bucky says, voice steady this time.

Steve smiles, handing over the paperwork. “Just read over this and sign it where necessary while I make up the stencil.”

Bucky takes the paper and the offered pen, eyes glued to the words as he reads it over. He’s got butterflies—excitement swirling in his stomach. His hand doesn’t even shake as he signs his name on the dotted line. There’s a moment where he pauses, looking down at his signature and just smiles. It means so much more to him than just the ability to hide better from facial scanners.

“Okay, all done?” Steve asks, looking up from where he’s washing his hands. Bucky nods, offering the signed paperwork back to him. Steve smiles and takes it, setting it down beside the stencil of Bucky’s tattoo. “Ready?” Steve checks.

Bucky nods again, standing up when Steve gestures for him to. They get the stencils transferred and Bucky takes a look at the placement and final design before giving the go-ahead. Steve checks it’s what he definitely wants a couple times, reassuring him it’s not too late change his mind. Bucky loves the designs. He tells Steve as much.

Eventually, Steve’s satisfied and he’s gesturing for Bucky to lay down on the tattoo table while Steve pulls on a pair of gloves and gets out the sterile equipment. Despite having seen others on Steve’s table before, ready to be tattooed, Bucky finds himself clenching his teeth together nervously as Steve prepares the ink. It’s just—the needles are going to be on _him_ this time and on his face, near his eyes and somewhere he can’t distance himself from. He won’t be able to move his head and although it won’t be anything like the _Chair,_ he knows it’ll be too similar for his liking.

He feels Steve’s eyes on him and Bucky looks up, blinking away the haze in his brain and giving a small smile. Steve smiles back before checking over the gun and settling into his chair behind Bucky. “Ready?” he asks.

Bucky nods, forcing himself to lay back and relax. “Go for it,” he murmurs. His hands are shaking. He curls them into fists.

“You can take a break at any time, okay? Just let me know,” Steve tells him, lowering the machine to Bucky’s face.

Bucky sucks in a deep breath as the needles start pricking away at his skin and maybe it’s the pain that does it. He _feels_ himself fading away, crawling deep into the back of his head to get away from it. This is something he’s used to.

The buzzing of the gun begins to sound like it’s on the other side of a wall and Steve’s hand resting ever so slightly on his cheek feels like a distant memory. His eyes, staring wide, are facing the ceiling, unblinking and unseeing. His breathing slows right down, heartbeat following suit to where he can count twenty-five beats per minute.

The buzzing echoes in his ears. _Electricity hums in his ears._ Steve’s hands are soft against his skin. _The vice around his head is cold, hard, unforgiving. Terrifying._ His vision is blurring over the more he stares, black dots swimming in his line of sight. _Black and white tears across the backs of his eyelids, lightning-blue swimming amongst the shades._ Someone’s talking to him, calling—his name? _Someone’s snapping out a command, something - something he knows._ Bucky. _Soldat._

“Bucky? Hey, Buck, can you look at me?”

Bucky blinks, realizing with a start that there’s no one touching him. The tattoo gun’s been turned off. He’s - he’s not in the Chair. He’s in Steve’s stall and the sun is stretching across the sky, the dusk clouds turning a hazy shade of pink. Bucky wets his lips, blinking again and sitting up slowly, frowning down at his knees.

Steve’s watching him, hands hovering like he wants to help Bucky sit up but he’s not sure about touching him. Bucky presses his lips together in a thin line and closes his eyes. “Sorry,” he mutters.

Steve huffs out a breath, and when Bucky glances at him he sees Steve looking down at the tattoo gun in his hands, turning it over. Steve’s frowning, eyebrows drawn together in an expression that makes Bucky’s stomach knot uncomfortably. His cheekbone is stinging and he wonders suddenly how much Steve got done. How long Bucky had been...gone for.

“We’re going to take a little break, okay?” Steve says suddenly, looking up. Bucky notices the way Steve’s shoulders are drawn in, catches the faint tremble of his hands. Bucky’s stomach swoops low and he feels sick. Steve had—Steve was _scared._ Bucky had done that.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, looking away. He grits his teeth against the wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes.

Steve’s getting up, setting the tattoo gun down and moving over to the water bottles he keeps in the corner of the stall. He cracks one open and offers it to Bucky, eyes searching Bucky’s face, boring straight into his eyes. Bucky doesn’t meet his gaze, just takes the bottle with a small ‘thank you’.

“What happened?” Steve asks after he’s sitting back down. “I mean, you don’t have to say, but—you were _gone,”_ he breathes, his face awash with concern.

Bucky scowls down at the water bottle, his gloved hand wrapped around it. “There’s things that - happened. To me. I don’t really like my head being touched. I guess this reminded me too much of...that,” he half-heartedly explains.

Steve’s quiet and when Bucky glances up at him, he’s pale and horrified. “You didn’t say - Buck, I’m so sorry, if I’d known I would have -”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Bucky interrupts, rolling his shoulders and sitting up straighter. “You didn’t know. I just—I really need to do this,” he says.

Steve frowns. “Are you sure you want to finish this today?” he asks, looking unsure. “We can try again whenever you’re ready,” he says, like he’s forgotten he’s leaving tomorrow.

Bucky blows out a breath, eyes sliding shut again as he nods. “I’m okay, Steve. I can do this,” he promises. He offers a smile as he catches Steve searching his face for any indication that he doesn’t want this. Bucky’s feeling—lost, almost. This is something he’s not used to; being treated like he, as a person, matters. That his comfort is something important. It’s making his heart thump unevenly in his chest.

Eventually, Steve nods, picking up a fresh pair of gloves and the gun and coming closer. “Is there anything I can do to help you stay present?” he asks softly.

Bucky blinks at him, takes a moment to wonder at the bright light that is Steve Rogers. He lets the smile grow even as he glances away, overcome. “Are you table to do this from beside me?” he asks.

Steve’s nodding already, moving his chair to beside Bucky rather than above him. “I’m going to talk to you all throughout, okay? If I think you’re drifting again we’re taking another break,” he tells him.

“I trust you,” Bucky murmurs, already leaning back again and trying to relax.

Steve smiles, cheeks flushing that gorgeous dusky pink. At a glance, Bucky realises it’s very much the same colour as the sky. The gun switches on again and Steve grabs his paper towels, setting the needle back to Bucky’s skin. This time, Bucky keeps his focus on Steve’s face. He catches all the little movements of Steve’s eyebrows, finds that they’re very telling to what’s going on in Steve’s mind.

He watches Steve slowly settle into work mode again, becoming entirely focused on the art he’s putting on Bucky’s face. With Steve being this close Bucky can pick out the tiny flecks of green in Steve’s eyes. His stomach turns over again, but in a pleasant way. He forgets, for a moment, about the people that are after the Winter Soldier. The people that want him dead. The people that want to take him and make him own up to things that—things that he had no choice in. Things that the Winter Soldier did.

“Okay, Buck?” Steve murmurs, checking in.

Bucky’s attention flies to Steve’s lips as they move and he swallows dryly, recognising that he had been drifting again. “I’m good, Stevie,” he replies, voice small even to his own ears.

Steve, still concentrating on the lines appearing on Bucky’s cheekbones, curls his lips into a smile. Bucky catches the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and quickly looks away, turning his attention back to the sky through the glass behind them. The pink is slowly fading, giving away to a dark grey-blue. There’s a moment where Bucky wonders how long he’s got till he’ll be locked in a cell, waiting for his execution. He wonders where he’s going to go next.

“We’re nearly done here, Buck. Still okay?” Steve asks, wiping at the tattoo to clear some ink and blood away.

Bucky smiles, looking back up at him. “Still here,” he assures him, suddenly itching to see the end result. He realises, in a moment of delight, that this is the first time his body has been modified with his consent—the first time it’s been modified by his _choice._ The thought makes him want to wriggle happily but he stays utterly still, beaming on the inside.

Steve seems to be finishing up a few things, his eyes narrowed as he focuses on the finishing touches. His strokes of the tattoo gun slow down and he switches it off, wiping at the tattoos with the paper towel, a smile gracing his face. He looks over the design, eyes intense as they check the lines and the shading but he seems satisfied.

“All done,” he says, eyes sliding over to meet Bucky’s.

Bucky blinks, sucking in a breath. They’re still incredibly close. Bucky’s stomach feels warm. “Thanks,” he replies.

Steve seems to realise how close they are and sits back, clearing his throat. His cheeks are pink again. He leans over to his table and grabs a bottle of foaming cleanser and a wipe to clean up the mess of ink on Bucky’s cheeks. Bucky can feel his face burning as Steve takes his time gently running the wipe over Bucky’s skin, eyes trained on the act rather than Bucky’s eyes. Steve grabs a mirror after and hands it to Bucky, the smile back on his face.

Bucky sits up immediately, swinging his legs down over the sides of the table. He holds the mirror up and blinks at his reflection, eyes going wide and lips parting in a startled exhale. He’d wanted something to disrupt the facial recognition, something to make it harder for those searching to find him but what he got—it’s just simple wavy _lines_ but they’re so clearly Steve’s art and he _loves_ them. They look like they’re meant to be there.

He catches Steve’s eye from behind the mirror, sees the almost amused look of pride shining there. Bucky glances back at his reflection and blinks in surprise at the look of _happiness_ he sees on his own face. He stares at it, lets himself commit it to memory. Lets himself smile even wider as he realises just how happy he is.

“Thank you,” he whispers, eyes gliding over the perfect lines, the gorgeous shading. He swallows against a dry throat and decides that he’s going to try his damned best to stay free. It’s what the lines on his face mean to him.

Steve looks suspiciously teary-eyed. “You’re welcome, Buck. Are they what you expected?” he asks.

“More,” Bucky says sincerely, setting the mirror down so he can get ahold of himself.

There’s companionable silence for a moment before Bucky reaches for his backpack and Steve reaches for the glad-wrap to cover the tattoos with. Bucky lets him put it on while he searches through his backpack for the money. Steve takes it, but it’s with a little bit of reluctance like he doesn’t really want to. Bucky finds himself standing at the edge of the stall, looking around, seeing everyone beginning to pack up.

“Are you all moving on tomorrow?” he asks.

Steve comes to stand next to him, nodding. “We’ll clean up tonight, get some sleep and then load up the trucks and be gone after lunch.”

Bucky nods, his eyes finding the ground. “Where’re you headed next?”

“Moscow,” Steve tells him. There’s something in his voice that makes Bucky think he’s holding a question back, like Steve doesn’t think he should ask it.

Bucky waits, using the excuse of tightening the straps of his backpack to linger awhile longer. Steve’s scuffing the ground with his boot, a nervous habit Bucky’s seen him doing more than once. Bucky looks at him, waits until Steve meets his gaze. Bucky furrows his brow in question, raising an eyebrow.

Steve huffs out a laugh, bringing up a hand to rub at the back of his neck. He looks away. “I just—Buck, are you okay? You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”

This is where Bucky learns how observant Steve is. He looks down at his boots, scowls at them like it’s all their fault. “It’s not the kind of trouble I’m gonna burden you with, Steve. I’ll be fine,” he assures him.

Steve doesn’t appear to be very assured. “You have somewhere to go, right?” Steve asks, frowning deeply. Bucky doesn’t like the worried expression on his face.

Bucky shrugs. “I’ll find somewhere, okay?” He thinks of Amalia, immediately balks away from the thought of putting the lovely old lady in danger. His mind turns to Viorel, but he knows the guy wouldn’t put his family in danger by taking in someone he barely knows. Dimitru barely has any room for himself at his place. Bucky wouldn’t want to burden him.

He looks up again to find Steve staring intently at him. Bucky blinks, gripping his backpack straps. The leather of his glove creaks. “It’ll be fine, Steve. Maybe I’ll see you around,” he tries again.

Steve looks unconvinced but resigned, like he knows it’s not his place to suggest where Bucky should go from here. “Stay safe, hey? And yeah, I hope so.” He seems to add the last part on an afterthought.

Bucky just gives him a slow grin and sticks out a hand. Steve rolls his eyes and takes it, giving it a solid shake. Bucky steps back, out of the stall. “Safe travels,” he wishes Steve.

Steve’s frowning like he wants to say more, something to prolong their goodbye, but he comes up with nothing. All he does is wave as Bucky backs away and eventually turns around, walking away from Steve and from the festival.

He finds himself glancing at every reflective surface as he walks towards the train station, eyes catching on the fresh tattoos. The lump in his throat grows every time he does it.

The ticket he buys is for a train that leaves in two hours, so he takes the time to gather supplies; small, high-protein foods, several different maps, a beanie, a large scarf, a pair of warmer gloves and a burner phone. On a whim, before he disposes of his current phone, he transfers Steve’s number to the burner one.  

With half an hour left, he borrows a pen and a napkin as he sips at the last coffee he’ll ever have at his favourite place in Romania. On it, he thanks Dimitru, Amalia and Viorel for their kindness and their friendship and he assures them that he’s okay. That he just feels that it’s time to move on. He leaves a special little note for each of them. He drops the napkin into Dimitru’s letterbox, knowing Dimitru would pass on the messages to the others. Bucky grits his teeth against the onslaught of loss and sadness.

He feels a tug in his gut as he boards the train, but he doesn’t dare look back.  

 

* * *

 


	3. Interlude

 

* * *

 

 

**Interlude**

_ Somewhere on a train racing through Ukraine, a man wearing both a beanie and a hoodie is hunched up on his seat, staring out the window at the landscape as it speeds past. The time is unknown but the sky is beginning to light up as the first rays of the sun peek out over the horizon. Every now and then, he can catch a glimpse of animals darting through the spring-leaf trees.  _

_ There’s droplets of rain clinging to the windows, left over from a light shower just moments before. The glass is cold against his cheek. His breath creates a fog along the pane, blooming from his lips with each exhale. His eyes, when they grow bored of watching the trees blur past, focus on his reflection inches away.  _

_ He looks tired, he finds. Old. There are too many years buried in the depths of his eyes and the endless black of his pupils remind him of damp, dark cells. He has not been himself for a long, long time. He has been places, done and seen things he wishes on no other human. And yet here he is, breathing against the glass of a train window, observing the land come alive with the morning.  _

_ Here he is with his old eyes, his exhausted body, his tired face. Here he is with his tortured mind, his weary soul and his dry throat. Here he is with a smile tugging at his lips, a destination up ahead and freedom tattooed on his face. _

 

* * *

 


	4. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for these Chapters;
> 
> \- Violence  
> \- Remembering torture/Visiting a place where they were tortured  
> \- People being tattooed  
> \- Someone being drugged without consent  
> \- Someone being kidnapped  
> \- Use of 'it' pronouns without the person's consent  
> \- Death/Violence/Murder  
> \- Graphic combat scenes  
> \- Transphobic Language/Transphobia  
> \- Another violent scene/fight scene

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Five**

Moscow is exactly how Bucky remembers it from his fragmented past; cold, loud and big. He’s been on three different trains, travelling for near forty hours—plenty of time to create a plan and also think about all the things that could go wrong.

Trudging along the sidewalk, Bucky keeps his head down and pulls his jacket tight around himself as a shield from the wind. The Seven Lions festival arrives in Moscow tomorrow and will be open to the public at the Museum-Reserve Tsaritsyno the day after. This gives Bucky both the rest of today and all of tomorrow to pull off an integral part of his plan.

No matter how shitty his memory is, he’s somehow retained the addresses of several HYDRA safe houses of which contain various amounts of supplies. There are three different safe houses in Moscow alone, one of which Bucky _knows_ is kept well-stocked with things like MREs, money and first aid kits.

This is where he’s headed now.

He has two days to get in, collect what he needs and get out. Afterwards he needs to get a passport and other identification made, because sneaking through every border would just be ridiculous. After _that,_ he’s got to come up with an excuse as to how and why he got to Moscow for when he sees Steve at Seven Lions.

Somehow, this is the most difficult part. He can’t very well say that he’s wanted by possibly every government and is being hunted by most of them for crimes he both didn’t and sort of did commit but he was brainwashed at the time and he definitely didn’t choose any of _that,_ so. Also he celebrated his 99th birthday in March. So, yeah, he’s got no idea how to go about it.

He’s mostly resolved to take everything as it comes.

As of right now he’s headed to the Grebnevo Manor where a HYDRA base is sitting mostly untouched, underground and hidden from the public. It lies too far from central Moscow to walk, especially with the chill in the air, so Bucky hangs a left to hunt down a train station that will take him as close as he can get.

*

There’s a little bit of a trek from the train station to the Manor and Bucky uses it to check his ammo and his knives. He takes care to wrap his scarf around his face, making sure it covers his tattoos. On the off chance that there are operating security cameras at the Manor he doesn’t want them to pick up on the fact that the Winter Soldier now has easily identifiable tattoos.

He stows his backpack away in an alley before entering the Manor through an open top-floor window. He lands in one of the abandoned rooms and makes his way downwards, hunting for the telltale security pad that will open the door to a stairway. It’s exercise for his stealth skills—there are blinking security cameras in every room. He does well to avoid each and every one of them.

Apart from the cameras, there is no life here; cobwebs hang from the ceiling and dust is thick on every surface. Dead leaves litter the worn carpet floors and ghostly sheets are draped over rotting furniture. This place hasn’t been active for a long, long time, but there are echoes of cruelty, of pain, of stories buried deep in the foundations.

Bucky shakes off the shiver creeping up over his shoulders and stalks on, careful to keep his footsteps light. Finding the keypad is simple; he just has to wipe off a bit of dust and punch in the code. The door, hidden in the wall, swings open away from him and shadows seem to pour out; it’s pitch black from here onwards.

Bucky brushes his metal hand over the wall to his left and finds a lightswitch. He flicks it on knowing that it will trigger an alert _somewhere_ that someone is in the safehouse. He has no idea how active HYDRA are in these parts, but if there’s someone in a base nearby he figures he has about half an hour before a drop-by check in is organised.

He follows the winding stairway downwards, the lights still taking their time to flicker on, making echoey _plinking_ noises as they light up the basement. The place has four rooms; kitchen, two bedrooms and one storeroom that has a cell in the corner. He heads straight for the storeroom, ignoring the cell and the old, _old_ blood stains that decorate its walls and floor.

He grabs a backpack from the walls, dusts it off and opens it, checking the food inside. There are quite a few MRE’s and some protein bars that are sure to be a bit past due-date. There’s still room in the backpack so he moves to the weapons wall, picking out guns and knives and—and—  

His hand is hovering over the handle of a barbed whip. The barbs have rusted blood speckled on them. His hand is shaking. His knees are shaking. The breath he drags in is shaky, too. He forces his eyes to move to the next lot of weapons—knives—and tries desperately to stave off the panic clawing it’s way up his throat. For a moment, he’d almost expected the whip to come alive and—  

The air outside the Manor is crisp. The sun is starting to dip low on the horizon.

Bucky Barnes takes a deep breath and moves on, backpacks slung over his back.

He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t see the unplated car pull up outside the Manor. He doesn’t see the black-clad agents climb out and head for the doors, hands clutching at rifles and tranqs. He doesn’t see the stun batons and the reinforced shackles. He hadn’t seen the hidden camera blinking at him from the corner above the cell.

Bucky Barnes is busy running his flesh fingers over the scar tissue decorating his lower neck and upper planes of his back. He’s busy focusing on keeping his nausea at bay. He’s focusing on what tomorrow will bring. He’s working on keeping the past where it is—the past.

*

It’s surprisingly easy to find someone who can have identification papers ready in under 60 hours. Bucky is to pick them up before he moves on to the next stop, which, according to the online information about the Seven Lions Tattoo Festival, is Berlin. Bucky’s pretty sure he hasn’t been to Berlin in over thirty years. He’s having trouble conjuring up an image of what it looks like.

So, in the two days before Seven Lions arrived in Moscow, Bucky’s managed to purchase a passport, birth certificate and a license as well as raid a HYDRA safehouse and secure _a lot_ of money and various amounts of food. His weapons cache is still light, but it’s enough to work with in case something comes up.

There’s a constant prickling sensation at the base of Bucky’s neck that makes him think something’s gonna come up.

Right now though, he’s still struggling to find an excuse as to why he’s followed Seven Lions to Moscow. He has no idea what to tell Steve, but he’s at the festival right now, weaving through the stalls, eyes lingering on some of the different styles he sees. It’s raining lightly outside and the sound of the water hitting the roof is drilling into his head, making his brain ache.

He finds Steve’s stall situated against one of the walls, set up across from Dernier’s again. Steve’s chatting with a customer, sketching out something at the same time. Bucky feels his stomach turning over and wonders why the hell he didn’t just go to ground instead of taking to the wind. He should probably just go to ground now, there’s no reason not to, it’s honestly probably _safer—_

_“Bucky?”_

Bucky’s attention snaps from the floor to Steve, who’s staring at him from his stall with a surprised expression colouring his face. Bucky freezes in order to keep himself from backing away. Shit. He feels like a deer caught in the headlights, staring at the bright light in front of him. The bright light that’s steadily coming towards him.

Steve’s in front of him, looking vaguely concerned. “Hey, Bucky, you okay?” he’s asking.

Bucky blinks, forcing himself to snap out of it. He meets Steve’s gaze, wondering if he’s as pale as he feels. “Hey, Steve,” he manages. He didn’t plan this, really. He hadn’t even thought about it, had just jumped on a train and went ‘hey, I’ll just follow Steve around, he’s a nice dude’.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Steve asks, then flushes. “I mean—not that you can’t—I didn’t think I’d—”

Bucky shrugs and Steve cuts off his rambling, pressing his lips together as he goes even redder. Bucky finds himself selfishly drinking in the colour, feeling oddly off balance. “I had nowhere to go, so I figured I’d just. Follow you guys?” he tries, shifting his weight onto his other foot. He’s fidgeting, which means he’s nervous. Great.

“Oh.” Steve appears to take a moment and get his thoughts straight, before he’s rolling his shoulders and giving Bucky a blinding smile. “Your tattoos are lookin’ good, you’ve been taking care of them?” he asks, leading Bucky over to his stall.

Bucky embraces the 180 turn and sits himself down on the chair that’s offered. The customer has disappeared, which means Bucky was distracted enough to not notice them leave, which is very bad of him. “I’ve been using the cream you advised,” he replies, crossing his ankles to keep his legs still.

“That’s good. How’re you likin’ them?” Steve settles down on another chair, that bright smile still lingering on his face.

Bucky feels decidedly warmer and calmer than he has in four days. His mind drifts back to the train ride, the reflection he spent hours staring at, the lines of the tattoos his eyes constantly went over. His stomach flips pleasantly and, without him realising, a smile lifts up the corners of Bucky’s lips.

“I love ‘em,” Bucky says, gloved fingers coming up to run over the tattoos subconsciously.

Steve’s got a soft smile on his face and Bucky snaps back to attention, sitting up a bit and dropping his hand to his lap. Steve’s gaze is questioning, but he drops the topic as Bucky shifts on his seats, grumbling at himself internally. Bucky’s a highly trained assassin on the run from nearly every government in existence and yet here he is, flustered and off-balance because of a _guy._

Bucky can’t bring himself to care too much. In fact, maybe he should be flustered and off-balance. He hasn’t been in a long, long time. He hasn’t let himself. He hasn’t been allowed. He hasn’t _been able to._ The realisation jolts him, sending lightning down his spine. He hasn’t been attracted to someone in... forever. And yet here he is. Staring dopily at Steve Rogers and trying to get a hold of himself before he embarrasses himself further.

And. Whatever. If he embarrasses himself, so what? He’s human. He is goddamn human and that’s not going to be taken from him ever again.

He lets the smile slip back onto his face. Maybe it looks a bit manic, but he’s _happy,_ dammit. “Yeah, I really love ‘em,” he murmurs, meeting Steve’s gaze again.

Steve looks like he’s _full_ of questions, but he doesn’t give voice to a single one, instead returning Bucky’s smile with one that holds a thousand stars. “I’m really glad,” Steve replies, voice soft.

Bucky presses his lips together and looks away, feeling his face heating up. “I’m thinking about getting another one by you,” he blurts in an effort to keep the conversation from turning awkward. He doesn’t realise it’s true until he says it.

Steve perks up, fingers twitching as he reaches for his sketchpad. “Have you got anything in mind?” he asks.

Bucky feels himself going distant, knows his face is going blank. He does. An image of what he wants hits him hard, right in the face, and a look of devilish mischief grows there. He scoots forwards on his chair and shoots a questioning look at Steve’s sketchpad. Steve hands it over, his fingers brushing Bucky’s gloved ones.

Very carefully, Bucky jots down the phrase that pierces the forefront of his mind. His skin is tingling, his heart fluttering. He’s had a lot of time to think in the two years he’s been free from HYDRA. The main thing he’s sure of is that it _wasn’t his fault._ No matter if he was _there,_ no matter if it was his body, it wasn’t him.

He hands the sketchpad back and watches nervously as Steve reads the words. Steve raises an eyebrow, eyes coming up to search Bucky’s. There are so many questions there. “He will have to beg me for forgiveness?” Steve asks. Bucky nods. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t fair. But it happened, and it’s not something he will forget or forgive. Steve nods back, tongue pressing at the inside of his cheek. “There’s a story behind this, isn’t there,” Steve acknowledges.

“It’s a long one,” Bucky rumbles, managing another smile.

Steve’s gaze is still searching. “Maybe another time, then,” he says, though it rings out like a question.

“Maybe,” Bucky agrees, a tendril of warmth curling through his gut at the idea. It’s surprising he doesn’t completely balk at it.

Steve nods to himself, the expression on his face telling Bucky that he’s surprised, too. “We can probably get this done while Seven Lions is here, I have Sunday set aside for flash and general walk-ins,” Steve says, his eyes back on the words Bucky wrote down.

Bucky’s fidgeting with the straps of his gloves and he stops it as soon as he notices. He gives Steve a smile and nods. “You have clients all today and tomorrow, then?” he asks.

“Yup! I have time set aside for lunch if you wanted to get something?” Steve offers, looking up and waving at a customer that’s arrived at the stall.

Bucky’s already standing up, nodding along as Steve speaks. “Yeah, I’ll be back around one,  then?” he makes sure, backing out of the stall.

Steve’s got a strange smile on his face, one that Bucky can’t decipher the meaning of. “I’ll see you then, Buck,” Steve says, before turning his attention to the customer.

Bucky figures he can use the spare time finding somewhere to actually have lunch. Which—he’s going to have lunch with Steve. _Steve._ It’s not a big deal but. It kinda is. Bucky is the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier is going on a lunch date. With his tattoo artist. A tattoo artist who is possibly a _friend._ A friend who is Steve.

Bucky’s head is reeling. He resolves to just find somewhere to have lunch with Steve.

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Six**

Bucky’s got a plate in front of him that used to have a vatrushka on it, but that got devoured...embarrassingly quickly. He hadn’t realised how hungry he’d been. He’s slowly sipping at black coffee and ignoring his still-growling stomach, instead focusing on Steve, who is gesticulating wildly as he tells a story about his best friend Sam and an incident that involved a haystack, a big spider and a game of hide-and-go-seek.

Steve’s tea should be going cold by now and his syrniki are looking sad all piled high and untouched, but Steve’s right into the story. And so is Bucky. The story ends with everyone roasting marshmallows over the embers of their camp and Bucky is _bubbling_ with laughter; he has to put his coffee down as he cackles away.

There’s a glint in Steve’s eye that tells Bucky that this was possibly the goal all along. Steve looks _delighted_ at the fact that Bucky’s gasping for breath as he laughs. “And what about you?” Steve asks. Bucky gives him a questioning look. “Got any stories from your teenage years?” Steve elaborates, reaching for his knife and fork.

Bucky blinks, face dropping into an expression of surprise. His eyes go distant as he stares at nothing over Steve’s shoulder, just...thinking. He does, doesn’t he? He’s got plenty of stories. He had—he had a _life_ before the war. Before HYDRA. He remembers bloodied knees, bloodied mouths, wild and bright eyes full of life, hunting down mischief. He remembers chasing friend and foe alike through the streets, he remembers nicking a bottle of whiskey out of his father’s cabinet and running it dry with his friends after a school dance. He remembers—oh god—

“Hey, Buck, it’s okay, you don’t have to share,” Steve cuts in, breaking Bucky out of his thoughts.

Bucky blinks, bringing his attention back to Steve. A smile works its way back onto his face. “No, it’s alright. I just haven’t...thought about— _before,”_ he says, even though it won’t make sense to Steve.

Steve raises an eyebrow and gestures for Bucky to go on. He doesn’t ask what’s happened to make Bucky refer to his teenage years as before. Bucky’s grateful. He’s got no idea how he would explain it away.

“I was—I was a trouble-maker, honestly. Always getting into shit I shouldn’t have. Didn’t acknowledge how harsh the world was, most of the time,” Bucky murmurs, finishing up the last of his coffee. He smiles down at the empty cup. “This one time, me and a few others from down at the docks could hear the baseball game going on and not one of us was flush enough to afford tickets, ya’know?”

Steve nods, assuring Bucky he’s following and picks up his tea, taking a sip. Bucky smiles bashfully, shaking his head and fidgeting with the cup in his hands. Memories are swirling through his brain, near overwhelming him, and he struggles to keeps ahold of the story he’s telling.

“It was Wiles that suggested it, I know it was. We snuck into the ballpark, right up under the bleachers, and stole a couple’a seats up the back. We must’a had a death wish or sumthin’; the coppers knew us by our faces now, would’a known we snuck in the moment they saw us.” He scoffs at his past-self, corners of his lips curling into a nostalgic grin. “Charlene was a spit-fire of a dame, always keepin’ up with the boys, more often than not keepin’ two steps ahead’a us. She was the one that pointed out the coppers eyein’ us more’an we were comfortable with.”

Steve’s sitting back in his chair, completely enrapt. Bucky wets his lips and, wrapped up in the cigarette smoke of 1938, kicks back so he’s swinging on the back legs of his chair. Without realising it, he’s completely relaxed, body open and expression bright and cocksure. It’s like he’s teenage Bucky Barnes again.

“So Charlene goes; ‘fellas, ya think the coppers are onta us?’, and _damn,_ for sure they were. They were comin’ towards us like there was no tomorrow, scowlin’ like there was somethin’ down their pants. We high-tailed it outta there, cacklin’ all the way—because the coppers hate that, huh? We were _crowin’,_ like we were on top’a the world. Runnin’ from the law always gave me a kick, stupid as I was.” Bucky takes a breath, smile turning sad. “I never found out what happened to that lot.” He stops there, pressing his lips together and setting all four chair legs on the ground again.

Steve’s watching him come back to the Bucky he knows. Bucky meets his gaze and finds many things there; surprise, sorrow, intrigue. Steve doesn’t give voice to any of his questions and Bucky looks away, swallowing against a dry throat.

“Your accent—you’re from Brooklyn, aren’t you?” Steve asks. “I wasn’t sure, before, but it got thicker just then.”

Bucky nods, setting his cup down on the saucer. “Yup. Haven’t been there in a while—accent’s worn off a bit.”

“I’m from Brooklyn, too,” Steve says, grinning.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, intrigued. He can’t help but wonder what Brooklyn is like now, seventy years into the future. “You still living there?” he asks.

Steve shakes his head, chewing through a bite of syrniki. “Nope, I moved a couple of years back. Inherited a patch of land. You wouldn’t think it, but I’m a farmer when I’m not doing this,” he reveals. Bucky blinks in surprise. The shock must show on his face because Steve laughs. “I used to help run a tattoo shop with Dum-Dum and Dernier back in Brooklyn, but for personal reasons I moved out to the middle of nowhere. Still do this every year, though. Sometimes wind up back at the shop for a week or two if people want to commission me that bad,” he explains.

Bucky hums, glancing at the time. Steve has to go back to his stall, soon. “What type of farmland do you run?” Bucky asks.

Steve’s eyes go distant and a smile curls at his lips. “I have an orchard,” he murmurs. “Sam—my best friend—and Clint help me take care of the sheep—we shear them and sell the wool. We’ve got chickens, too. I spend a lot of time taking care of the biggest veggie garden I thought I’d ever see. One of the fields is used for baling half of the year.”

And Bucky can imagine it, too. He can see Steve, hands dirty, knees in the dirt as he pulls at weeds and takes care of the seedlings. He can imagine him getting up early to start the day, walk through the orchard and gather fruit before moving on to feed the chickens. It’s such a wonderful, visceral image that Bucky’s almost salivating at the mere _idea_ of such a place existing. It brings a lot of peace into his mind, one that is usually shaken with both blankness and anger.

He has to shake himself to get rid of the hope. “It sounds wonderful,” he says softly.

Steve’s watching him, reading his face carefully. “It really is.” He checks his watch, purses his lips, looking hesitant. “Could we—I have to get back, but we could maybe do this again tomorrow?” he asks.

“It’s a date, Rogers,” Bucky says before he thinks about what it _is_ he’s saying.

He doesn’t take it back, instead watching the dusky rose blush spread over Steve’s cheeks and up to the tops of his ears. They stand together, gathering their things and, having already paid the bill, walk out of the cafe with smiles on their faces.

“Same place, same time?” Steve confirms.

Bucky nods. “I’ll be here. See you tomorrow,” he says, turning to head back towards the hostel he’s staying at.

“Take care of yourself, Bucky,” Steve calls after him.

Bucky throws him a care-free grin and wiggles his fingers at Steve’s retreating figure. Steve laughs.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Seven**

One thing Bucky learns after his second lunch date with Steve—he’s allowing himself to call it a date in his head, okay—is that Steve really really likes music. He’s always got it playing at his stall and he’s usually got a pair of headphones either in his ears or in his pocket. It enthralls Bucky to no end. He’d forgotten what it was to become completely wrapped up in a song, to feel something so bone-deep it gives you shivers.

He buys a pair of headphones and a crappy little MP3 player as soon as their lunch is over. The people at the shop help him download hours worth of songs and then he’s on his way. He falls in love with how _human_ it makes him feel. When he’s listening to his music he’s in his own little bubble, somehow separate from his instinctual _everything and everyone is a threat_ state of mind.

So the next day, when he’s headed to the festival to get his next tattoo done by Steve, he doesn’t notice he’s got a tail until the guy is literally right behind him. Bucky immediately pauses his music and continues on, all senses trained on the guy till they walk past an alley and Bucky hangs a left into it.

The guy follows, of course, and Bucky shoves him up against the wall, one hand at his throat and the other fisted in his shirt, rendering him absolutely motionless. Bucky bares his teeth at the man and presses his metal fingers a little tighter against his jugular. “You HYDRA?” he hisses.

Despite the fact he’s shaking, the guy doesn’t react to the fact that the Winter Soldier has him pinned to a wall with a murder weapon around his throat. “HYDRA is close to getting its Asset back,” he rasps, choking out each word around Bucky’s grip. “We’re on your trail, _zima soldat.”_

Bucky feels it like a stun baton to his rib cage, shocking him to the core and rattling his very being. “Where—” He doesn’t get the chance to finish before the man is grinding down on his back teeth and cracking open a cyanide capsule. The man goes limp, a horrid bubbling grin stuck on his face. Bucky drops him like he’s a plague, backing away rapidly.

He’s not running, but every atom in his body is screaming at him to. His heart rate has skyrocketed, adrenaline pumping through his veins as his mind goes into over-drive. It’s going over every possible angle; how they could have found him, what he’s going to do, what’s going to happen from here?

To his horror, a lump in his throat it growing rapidly, making it difficult for him to breathe. He can’t lead HYDRA back to Steve. There’s no way he could put Steve in danger— _no way._ But. At the same time, the festival is still the least likely place HYDRA would attack. They would try to take him from wherever he was spending the night rather than somewhere hundreds of people were present.

Unless they just outright took him and be damned with the consequences.

But that was unlikely. So, taking a deep, meditative breath, Bucky set about the task of losing any tail he might still have, backtracking and taking side roads and generally confusing the hell out of any follower. Just in case of the off chance HYDRA didn’t know about the festival yet.

Eventually, he makes it to Seven Lions, grumbling internally and trying to keep calm. It isn’t working so well. He must have missed a camera when he was at the safehouse and was seen. He curses himself for it—for being sloppy, for the danger he’s imposed on Steve, for the danger he’s imposed on anyone around him.

He’s standing outside the festival doors, glaring up at the building. He and Steve had decided on the placement of his new tattoo yesterday and he’s here to get it done now, as well as spending some time with Steve. Right now, he’s absolutely certain no one followed him here, but he can’t know that they didn’t track him with cameras.

So, instead of panicking and giving into flight mode, he takes a deep breath. He steadies himself, mentally going over the weapons on his person right now to calm right down. He forces himself to take long strides, not daring to let each step be shaky. His legs feel weak and he knows he must be pale, but he brushes it off and focuses on the fact that he’s going to see Steve.

He knows the way easily by now, his feet carrying him to Steve’s stall in a matter of minutes. When he gets there, Bucky’s hit with a feeling that makes his chest hurt. Steve’s bent over a piece of paper, sketching rapidly, a concentrated look on his face. There’s music crooning from Steve’s speakers, volume just high enough to make out the lyrics.

Steve hasn’t seen Bucky yet, is completely wrapped up in whatever he’s working on. Maybe Bucky feels a little creepy just hovering and watching, but what can he say? Steve’s presence is calming, making Bucky’s whirlwind thoughts slow to a stop and settle. He’s able to breathe a little easier, now, is able to focus on the present and process what has just happened.

Huffing out a breath, he moves forwards and into Steve’s line of sight. Steve looks up from his work, a smile sliding over his face. “Hey, Bucky,” he greets, and Bucky feels the rest of the tension leave his body.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky replies, shoulders relaxing and a dopey smile making it’s way onto his face. “How’s your day been?” he asks, sliding into a chair beside Steve.

Steve leans back in his own chair, stretching out in a way that indicates he’d been hunched over for a while. “Good, I’ve had six customers. Just sketching out some more flash tattoos while I’ve got time,” he says, an easy grin lighting up his face.

“Can I see?” Bucky asks, nodding at the sketches.

Steve pushes the drawing paper over, eyes on Bucky’s face. “They’re just drafts at the moment, I’ll be adding some colour later.”

Bucky nods, flipping through the sketches. He pauses on one—a brilliant, deep-set eye. “You said today’s for walk-ins, right?” he checks, gloved fingers running over the edges of the sketch. It reminds him of awakening—like when he realised that there was more to him than the Asset.

“Yup,” Steve replies, leaning over to have a look at what’s caught Bucky’s attention.

Bucky looks up, sliding it back over. “Could I get this done at the same time as the words?” he asks.

Steve blinks, looking surprised, before an excited grin takes over his face. “Of course,” he says, taking the sketch and dragging over his wheely shelf full of equipment. “We’ll get this one transferred while we chat about your other tattoo,” he adds, handing over the paperwork for Bucky to sign.

“Did you find a font?” Bucky asks, giving the agreement a quick scan and signing it.

Steve grins at him and Bucky’s breath is taken away at the fierce happiness shining there. “I sure did,” Steve breathes, pulling out the final sketch of Bucky’s idea and handing it over.

Bucky takes it with gentle fingers, making sure the leather of his gloves doesn’t crinkle the paper.There are the words he gave to Steve to put on Bucky’s body, staring up at him bold and defiant. The font Steve’s chose is _perfect._ It screams challenge, like he really means the words and they hint at a story. It makes Bucky smile, makes Bucky remember why he chose them. He knows that every time he looks at them, he will remember that he is allowed to be angry. That everything he feels towards those who wronged him is valid.

“You like it?” Steve prompts after Bucky’s been quiet for a long time.

Bucky looks up, horrified to find his eyes shining. He blinks the tears away, clearing his throat and setting the paper down. “It’s perfect, Steve,” he murmurs, standing up.

Steve smiles, a soft curve of his lips, and gestures for Bucky to hop up on the tattoo table. “I’m still curious about the story behind it,” he says, but Bucky knows that unless he wants to tell Steve, Steve won’t push.

“Maybe you’ll hear it one day,” Bucky hums, going to pull his pant leg up—the words are going on his shin and he wants the eye on his knee just above them—when he freezes and remembers he’s got a knife strapped to the inside of his boot. And he knows he’s got more than a couple of scars on his calf, too. All of his body, in fact.

Steve turns around from where he’d been finishing up transferring the sketch to trace paper and sees Bucky hesitating. He raises an eyebrow, hesitating as he gauges the situation. “Alright, Buck?” he asks quietly, pulling his chair over. “Not getting cold feet, are ya?” He’s trying to keep things light. Bucky’s grateful.

“No, I—” he cuts off, irritated with himself. “I’ve got—” he stops again and huffs, scowling down at his thighs. “Whatever. You’ll see,” he gives in, pulling the cargo pant leg up. He _knows_ his whole body is taut and on edge right now, absolutely reeking of tension and challenge, daring Steve to say something even though he knows his scars aren’t anything to be ashamed of.

Bucky hears Steve suck in a sharp breath of surprise. “Oh, I—what happened?” Steve asks, clearly without thinking about it because he then immediately takes it back. “I mean, sorry, shit, you don’t have to say, obviously, I just—” realising he’s rambling, Steve clamps his mouth shut and gives Bucky an apologetic look.

Bucky blinks at him, before offering a smile. “It’s okay. It is sorta horrific,” he hums, eyeing the scars. There’s at least two bullet wounds visible, countless knife scars and other scrapes and burns and needle marks. Thanks to the serum that was forced into him, he can apparently live this long and his brain can attempt to heal itself, but his body has a hard time getting rid of skin scars. He’s healed quick a few things internally, but he’s sure they’ve left marks.

When he looks at Steve again, his eyes are lingering on Bucky’s gloves. Bucky shifts awkwardly, drawing Steve’s attention back to Bucky’s face. Steve looks crestfallen. “Sorry, I should know not to pry. Or stare. Or—yeah. So, where did you want the eye tattoo?” he asks, changing the subject.

“On this knee, above the words,” Bucky tells him, pursing his lips as he thinks over his next words. “And yeah, there’re more scars,” he says softly.

Steve gives him a relieved look as he realises Bucky doesn’t really mind the unspoken questions. Steve hasn’t mentioned the knife handle poking out of his boot, either. Bucky’s kind of surprised, but he’s come to expect that he’s able to trust Steve. He’s come to expect that he acts different around Steve as well; he’s more relaxed, more willing to share things about himself. More willing to let people in.

“Alright,” Steve cuts into Bucky’s thoughts, pulling some gloves on. “Shall we get started? Not gonna lie, both of these are gonna hurt _a lot,”_ he says.

Bucky lets the amused smile bloom on his face. “Alright,” he replies, kicking his legs up and laying down on the table.

“I’m gonna have to shave the area, okay?” Steve warns him and Bucky nods.

As Steve prepares the tattoo area, Bucky thinks back on the fact that HYDRA has found him again. He had expected them, of course, but ever since Steve and the festival he’d felt himself slipping. Being lulled into a false sense of security. He feels irritated at himself for letting this happen, but he doesn’t regret anything. He’s found something he never expected here with Steve—trust. Friendship. _Happiness._

“Alright,” Steve says, putting the stencil on. “This good?” he asks, checking the placement with Bucky. The eye one is going on first. Bucky nods and Steve grins, checking over his inks and then turning the gun on. “You’re welcome to stay sitting up, just make sure you’re in a comfortable position. Tell me if you need a break,” he warns.

Bucky just nods and watches with interest as Steve begins the tattoo. He hadn’t been able to see it in action last time, what with the tattoo being on his face. The piercing drag of the needles hurt a different way this time and he wonders at it, following the trail the ink makes. He’s able to remain completely still and ignore most of the pain because of course he is. He’s had far worse than this happen to him.

“Doing alright, Buck?” Steve checks in as he finishes up the outline and moves on to the colour.

Bucky hums in confirmation, attention having drifted to the goings-on around them. There are a few people watching from outside Steve’s stall, a few looking at the flash tattoos he’s got on display. Some milling about or walking past. Most of the other stalls around them have people getting tattooed, or if they don’t, they’re occupied with a customer. No one draws Bucky’s attention in a way that would indicate danger.

It takes a long time, but Bucky asks for a little break after the eye tattoo is finished. He and Steve have been talking about inconsequential things like some of Steve’s tattoos—which are on full display today on his bare arms—and some of the craziest tattoos Steve’s done. Other things as well, like wondering together about the kittens they saved back in Bucharest.

Steve hands Bucky a water bottle before moving onto the words placed on Bucky’s upper shin. Bucky watches, sitting up from where he’d been laying down. He sees the way Steve’s careful and incredibly talented at missing the scars, or just barely touching the edges of them where he absolutely has to. Slowly, a gorgeously well-done tattoo forms. Bucky’s eye on his knee is bleeding just slightly, but it too looks wonderful.

“These are gorgeous, Steve,” Bucky murmurs, voice hoarse. They’d gone quiet thirty minutes ago as Steve focused on the last bits of the tattoos.

Steve turns the gun off and grins. “I’m glad you like them. You did well handling the needles, too,” he says, standing up and stretching before beginning the clean up. “I’ll give you the tattoo care instruction again, have you still got some of that cream left?” he checks.

Bucky nods, swinging his legs over and letting Steve wrap the tattoos before he pulls his pant leg down. “I’ll buy some more, though. I’m planning on getting some more tattoos from a certain someone in a couple of days. Berlin, is it?”

Steve’s face is priceless. He looks absolutely radiant with his happiness, wide grin stretching his cheeks and eyes positively shimmering with warmth. “Yeah, Berlin. Have you got any designs in mind?” he asks.

Bucky shakes his head. “I’ll come up with some on the way there. I’m flying this time.”

“We’re taking the train—we’ve got a lot of stuff to transport. We’ll be there in a couple days though, we’re opening in Berlin in four days.”

Bucky grins. “Heaps of time to plan then.”

Steve takes the money Bucky’s dug out of his backpack and nods. A bashful smile has made it’s way onto his face and his cheeks are turning rosy. Bucky raises an eyebrow, prompting him to spit whatever is on his mind out. Steve huffs. “Can we text during the travelling?” he asks.

Bucky feels giddy with the burst of happiness that follows Steve’s words. He’s nodding before he realises, knows he’s acting like a schoolkid with a crush but it’s whatever. “Yeah, Steve, we can do that,” he says with a grin.

“Cool,” Steve breathes, a relieved and excited look on his face. “Text me your number?”

There’s a few potential customers waiting patiently behind Bucky, so Bucky pulls his backpack on and steps back a little, nodding. “I’ll see you in Berlin,” he says.

Steve looks like he wants to say more but instead he just smiles and gives a little wave. Bucky waves back as he heads out of the stall and they keep waving like idiots until they can’t see each other anymore.

Next stop, Berlin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Eight**

The airport is crowded; it makes Bucky’s skin itch. He knows it’s the fastest way to get to Berlin, but he wishes he’d booked a train ticket instead. It’s too late now, he knows, so he grits his teeth and keeps moving with the line, waiting his turn for bag check. Even though he knows his metal arm doesn’t set off the detectors—HYDRA had made sure it didn’t, for easier travel and undercover reasons alike—he’s still incredibly nervous.

His weaponry has been stowed underneath one of the Seven Lions travelling trucks, so he’s travelling with nothing but himself as defense. It’s putting him more on edge than he needs to be, especially knowing that he’s on a lot of different people’s radars at the moment. So he stays alert, tries to keep calm and focuses on the fact that if he gets on this plane, he’ll see Steve again very soon.

It’s when a couple of security guard’s eyes begin to linger on him a bit longer than normal that his skin starts to really crawl. His fingers twitch as he refrains from clenching his hands into fists. One of the guards is speaking lowly into his walkie-talkie, eyeing Bucky with sharp eyes. Bucky subconsciously adjusts where he’s holding his weight and mentally prepares for anything.

The guard walks straight towards him. The look on his face is almost... smug. Unease unfurls in Bucky’s stomach and his eyes flicker down to where the guard has a hand on his baton. The guard is already speaking before he comes to a stop in front of Bucky. “You’ve been randomly selected for additional screening, please come with me.”

Bucky presses his lips tight together and gives a tight nod, resolving to just follow the guard and wait to see what action he needs to take. Out here in the open, with civilians and other security carrying automatic weapons, it would be a horribly _bad_ idea to try anything. So he falls into step in front of the guard, going where he’s told.

He’s taken into a secure room, because of course. This isn’t proper protocol because he’s the Winter Soldier and they _know_ that. He’s not sure who ‘they’ are yet, but he’s betting on HYDRA. It would be of no surprise to learn that they’ve infiltrated the security personnel in the airports. It would be of no surprise to learn that they’re on high alert, waiting for him at any turn.

He takes a deep breath and holds in the flinch that surfaces when the door shuts behind him. He realises he should have taken the chance and made a run for it out there with the civilians and armed guards when he sees no one’s in the room with him. Horror dawns when the door locks and air ducts snap open on the ceiling. He smells the gas before he sees it, a nauseating scent that he knows all too well.

He’s on his knees before he knows it, head spinning. He’s gotten sloppy. Pliant. _Useless._ He can’t even keep himself safe, he can’t even keep himself out of HYDRA’s hands. When his eyesight goes, as it always does first, he bares his teeth and lets out a low, infuriated growl. His sense of smell goes next and he’s left relying on the slow hiss of the gas flooding the room to know he’s still conscious.

When he can no longer smell the gas, he realises he’s on his side, curled up in a loose ball and twitching a miniscule amount. He can taste the gas, still, can still feel the cold lino underneath him. He has a moment of panic when he realises he’s going to lose his backpack. He’s going to lose his phone and he’s probably not going to escape in time to find Steve again.

Steve won’t know what happened to him. He’ll just think Bucky never showed up, won’t he?

Taste is gone. Bucky’s blind, deaf and utterly senseless in a matter of minutes. He’s still awake, which is the worst part. He can’t hear, see, smell, taste or feel so he has no idea what’s happening to his body but his mind is very much awake. And he’ll be stuck in this state until it starts to wear off.

*

Hearing comes back first. It always has. The other senses vary. The moment Bucky can hear again he’s glad he can’t move because he would be writhing with the pain of his ears coming back online. His ears are ringing so much he can focus on nothing else. When they settle down, he’s aware of the fact that he’s either _in_ a moving car or there is one nearby. It sounds like he’s in one, though.

He wonders if the gas has worn off quicker than usual, or if his captors didn’t know how long it took for his system to get rid of it.

Taste and smell come back simultaneously, making him grimace internally. He can smell the diesel, the combined mud and leather that comes with worn combat boots. He can smell farm on the breeze through an open window and the gunpowder sitting in unused bullets. He’s in a transfer truck. Most likely bound and on the floor, with several guards assigned to watching and waiting for him to regain his senses.

His sense of touch comes back in a rush that leaves him reeling, fighting to stay completely immobile so as not to blow his cover. He knows how to fight blind, could probably get around well enough without his sight, but he’ll wait for now. He wonders how long they’ve been travelling and how far away they are from Moscow.

Surprise floods his system as he realises his backpack it still on his back and his phone is still in his pocket. He has reinforced cuffs on his wrists behind his back and on his ankles and he’s sure he’ll be secured to the wall of the truck, but if he moves quick enough he could probably break the chains or the pole he’s tied to.

From listening intently, he decides there are five heavily armed agents in the truck with him. Probably two up in the driver’s seat. He knows the moment he moves he’ll either be shot with tranquilizers, riddled with bullets or incapacitated in some other creative way.

Sight comes back like a shock, rendering him breathless at the brightness of it all. He commends himself at his ability to keep up the pretense that he’s still under the control of the gas. He supposes he’s had a lot of practice.

 _“It’s kinda creepy laying there like that, isn’t it?”_ The words are spoken in Russian and come from Bucky’s left.

One of the others agents snorts. _“It looks dead. Didn’t someone think to shut its eyes?”_

 _“Yeah, sure, you can go near it if you want, Nikolai.”_ A third agent speaks, one Bucky’s staring straight at. The guard glances at him, gives a—mostly—put-upon shudder. _“It’s staring straight at me. How long have we got to go?”_

Bucky suppresses the urge to let his face morph into a deadly grin. An agent from the front of the truck knocks on the partition. _“Quit your talking. We’ve got another twenty minutes till we reach the base.”_

The conversation goes dead at that, much to Bucky’s frustration. Twenty minutes is a long time for things to go wrong—or in his case, right. He’s in a frustrating position to get out of quickly, but if he rolls forwards he’s sure to break either the pole or the chain and from there he just has to get rid of the agents. He wants to desperately to sigh.

One of the agents shuffles their feet.

Bucky explodes into action, eyes snapping into focus so he can watch the terror flush through the agent’s system. The chain breaks, which is preferred, as he doesn’t have a pole dragging after him now. The cuffs are annoying but he gets his hands in front of his chest before any weapons are drawn.

He brings the cuffs down hard on the first agents skull, not pausing for a second to check if he lives. He knocks a gun away from the second agents hands in the next moment before grabbing the guy and using him as a human shield as the three other agents’ guns go off.

_“The Asset is up! Uvarov, pull over!”_

Bucky snarls at the agent in his arms and throws his dead weight to the ground, lunging for the next one, stumbling a bit with the ankle cuffs. The truck is braking hard, swerving to the right and pulling to a stop. Bucky’s horrified to realise that instead of the dead blankness that generally takes over his mind in these situations, he’s shaking. He’s terrifyingly alive right now and each blow he delivers to these agents, no matter how much hate he’s harbouring for them, he feels in his gut.

He spots a set of keys hanging from the fourth agent's belt as Bucky throws his arms over the agent's head and pulls the wrist-cuffs tight against their neck. The fifth agent has their drawn and shoots without hesitation. It's like slow-motion; Bucky doesn't have time to pull the forth agent against him as a human shield. The bullet catches him in the side; he feels it tear through his skin, muscle and sinew before settling under his rib and burning like hellfire. Bucky hears the roar rip from his mouth as though it comes from someone else. The pain is  _fierce._

The fifth agent shoots again and this time Bucky pulls the forth agent in front of the bullet, letting it catch them in the forehead. He takes a ragged breath and throws the dead-weight at the fifth agent, yanking both the keys and a knife from the forth agent's belt as he goes. Before the fifth agent can recover, Bucky's on them, knife sinking into their chest.

With death heady and suffocating around him, Bucky quickly unlocks his cuffs. Then the truck doors are swinging open and the tell-tale snick of rifles being loaded follow. Bucky's panting hard and trying to breathe through the pain of the bullet lodged under his rib, but he hauls himself to his feet, grabbing the gun from the fifth agent with a shaky hand. The moment the back doors open he gathers the last of his strength and shoots both agents quick as lightning.

He cringes at the sound of their bodies hitting the ground.

He’s shaking all over, knows he’s not far from a panic attack. It’s been a long time since he’s had one and now’s not the time he can afford one. He needs to get far from here. The truck most definitely has trackers in it, probably cameras too, so he needs to move fast. He holsters two more guns and pilfers a couple knives before securing his backpack and getting the heck out of dodge.

He jumps down out of the truck, over the agent’s bodies and takes a look around. It’s a gravel road, trees on both sides. No road signs. He has no idea where he is. He takes a deep breath and presses a hand tight to where blood is oozing out of his bullet wound. He can feel the bullet moving around under his bone, knows this is going to be a bitch to get out.

He walks into the trees and takes to the shadows there. It’s difficult not to leave a trail, so he makes his path as confusing as possible. He’s losing blood quicker than he’d like but he has to keep going before more agents arrive. He keeps his eyes and ears peeled for any movement and just _keeps going._

_God, he hasn’t killed in so long._

He has no idea how long he walks for before his mind gives up and his body gives into the panic attack like a palm tree to a tsunami.

*

There’s a…noise. It’s a low beeping and it’s not stopping. There’s the strange sound of vibrating that comes with it, too.

Bucky blinks at the light filtering through the treetops and attempts to get his bearings. There’s a ringing in his ears that comes with the piercing headache pounding against his skull and his throat is so dry his breaths are coming in wheezes. His whole body aches, but he’s alive.

His phone is ringing. That’s what the beeping is. There’s only one person who has his number.

He groans and rolls over, off of his backpack and scrabbling for his back pocket. His shirt makes a horrible crackling sound as the fabric moves against dried blood. He grabs his phone and presses the ‘accept call’ button, holding the damn thing to his ear. “Hello?” he rasps.

 _“Bucky? Are you okay? You sound—nevermind, just, are you okay?”_ Steve’s voice crackles through the speaker and Bucky closes his eyes, feeling his body relax.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” he replies, biting back a groan as he tries to sit up. Sticks and leaves crackle underneath him and he wants to shoot every HYDRA agent in the head.

Steve’s silent for a moment, before he clears his throat and speaks. _“Bucky, you haven’t answered your phone in four days. You didn’t show up at the festival in Berlin today. I don’t know, I might just be reading too much into it, maybe you didn’t want to talk—”_

“Steve,” Bucky cuts in, before Steve can read too much into his radio silence. Bucky coughs away from the phone, rubbing his free hand down his face. “I’m sorry, I missed my flight in Moscow and…” He’s got no fucking way to explain this, does he? “I’ve been trying to find another flight but there’s not much I can afford. My phone was dead and I’m on the streets at the moment, had no way to charge it.” He cringes at his excuse, feels slimy and disgusting for lying to Steve like this.

Steve sighs. _“So you’re not really okay, are you?”_ he says quietly.

Bucky’s tugging his shirt up to get a look at the bullet wound, grimacing at the mess it’s made of his side. It’s half-healed, just a mess of scab and forming scar tissue. He begins hunting around to see if the bullet was pushed out. “Well, no, I suppose not. I might have found a cash job, though,” he replies to Steve. “I should be able to get a flight to London. That’s your next stop, right?” He’ll have to be incredibly careful on this flight. He’s not sure how he’s going to do it.

 _“Are you sure? You don’t...you don’t need any money, do you? You’ve got food? Water?”_ Steve sounds far too concerned and Bucky hates himself.

He finds the bullet with a relieved sigh. “I’m good, Steve. I’ll see you in London, hey?”

 _“Take care of yourself, Bucky. I’ll be expecting you in London in a week, okay? And text this time, dammit. There must be a library around to charge your phone.”_ Steve sounds worried and it breaks Bucky’s heart.

“I’ll keep you up to date, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, tucking the bullet into his pocket. “See you in a week.”

 _“See ya, Buck.”_ There’s the crackle of the phone line filling Bucky’s ear for a moment before Steve speaks again. _“Uh, I may have...left some messages for you. Don’t read into them too much. I was worried.”_

Bucky’s unbelievably intrigued. “Alright, I look forward to seeing what concerned Steve is all about. It’s not threats of bodily harm, is it?” he jokes. The silence that follows makes Bucky rasp out a laugh. “Oh god it is,” he snickers.

 _“Shut up. I’ll see you in London,”_ Steve replies, but the tone of his voice tells Bucky he’s just as amused by this.

Bucky smiles at the trees, wishing he’d been more careful so he could be with Steve right now. “See you, Steve,” he hums.

The line goes dead and Bucky tucks his phone back into his pocket. His smile turns into a glare as reality sets in. He has food and water in his backpack, but after that he needs to find out where he is, find a way to the nearest international airport and from there successfully fly to London in time to meet up with Steve at the next Seven Lions festival stop.

Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.

Bucky tells himself it’s the dehydration and shock that makes him laugh at himself.

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Nine**

Although the ground is dry, there’s a deep-set chill in the air that tells Bucky he’s far inland. Steve had said he’d been missing for four days, which allows three days of travel and however long he was passed out for on the forest floor. It’s the three days he doesn’t want to think about; he has no idea what was done to him. If anything was done to him.

He’s checked himself over vigorously for trackers or any fresher scars and marks, but there are none, apart from the bullet wound. He’d spent an hour sitting in the spot where he’d woken, chewing on protein bars and sipping at his water bottle and just _listening._ He has no idea where he is and this is probably one of the most stupidest things he’s gotten himself into.

He’s the Winter Soldier and he’s lost in a forest in Russia.

He has to get up eventually and he decides to just. Climb a tree and see if he can figure out which direction to head in first. His muscles ache from the gas and being senseless for so long—they must have regassed him several times to keep him under—and he has the most killer headache. He ignores the various pains and hauls ass up the nearest tall tree, grunting irritably every time a stick gets caught in his hair.

When he gets to the top he holds in a growl of frustration at the sight of endless treetops. There is absolutely nothing in sight to help him. He turns around and finds he can see the shape of the road he and HYDRA had been on, but he want to _avoid_ that direction as much as possible. Well. At least he knows which direction to go in, despite it being a track with no end in sight. Russia is...massive. He’s got no idea how long this is going to take.

He casts his eyes to the overcast sky above and glares, chest feeling heavy. He taps the tattoo on his shin pointedly and sets about getting down from the tree.

He has a compass in his bag and he thanks his past self for thinking about chucking one in. It’d been his emergency bag, after all. He checks the rounds in his new guns before heading off, pleased to find they’re nearly full. He walks for hours upon hours, eyes constantly flickering down to the compass to make sure he’s still going straight.

The forest isn’t by any means _quiet,_ but when his phone makes a beeping noise he’s glad there’s no one around to see him jump. Muttering to himself about being on edge, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and settles down against a tree, deciding now's as good of a time as any to have a break.

There’s a text from Steve on his phone.

**From: Steve**

_Hey, Bucky. Just finished up the first day in Berlin, wish you could be here to see some of these buildings! They’re so cool! How are you doing? Got somewhere to sleep?_

Bucky narrows his eyes at the message and knocks his head against the tree trunk. Steve’s concern does something to his heart. He feels _fluttery_ and it’s ridiculous. He knows the buildings Steve is talking about, has seen them many times, but the knowledge that Steve’s thinking about him missing out makes him feel way too many things.

He sighs and digs out an MRE, setting it up before preparing himself to text Steve back.

**To: Steve**

_Hi Steve. Take pictures of the buildings for me and we can look at them over lunch in London, okay? I’m fine.Thinking about that new tattoo. How was your day?_

He avoids the whole ‘have you got somewhere to sleep’. It’s as good as Bucky’s going to get it, so he presses ‘send’ while he’s taking a bite of his beef stew. He hums to himself at the taste; this is all too familiar to him. Sitting in a forest, munching back MREs. All he needs is—no. He’s not going to think about his men. Sergeant James Barnes died a long time ago and he refuses to entertain the memories that come with thinking about him. They’re all tinged with acidic grey.

Steve’s reply comes quick as lightning.

**From: Steve**

_What ideas do you have for the tattoo? And don’t think I didn’t see you avoiding my question._

Bucky snorts, rolling his head back and sighing. He looks around and glares at a bush. He can blame a bush for his misfortunes, whatever.

**To: Steve**

_I was thinking a big one, something that connects over a lot of my body. Maybe a sea-monster type of design. Still haven’t decided yet. And yes, I have somewhere to sleep. Tell me how your day was!_

He tucks his phone away and decides that yup, he’s sleeping under that bush. He’s exhausted and the sky is steadily getting darker. He’s made progress today. He’ll climb another tree in the morning and see if he can find any insight as to where he is. He grabs some branches lying around on the ground and drags them over to his bush, putting a makeshift hut together.

His phone goes off again but he doesn’t check it till he’s curled up in his hut. It’s sheltered enough that he’s not shivering, and his meal helped with his body warding off the cold, but he knows tonight’s going to be rough.

**From: Steve**

_I’ll have some sketches ready for you for when we meet up in London. I hope you’re warm, Buck. My day was good! I got heaps more commissions to get done tomorrow and I got plenty done today. Me and Dernier went for a walk around the city to do some sight-seeing, and there’s a really cool cafe that we found that sells super nice pancakes._

**To: Steve**

_I’m looking forwards to it. You have a thing about pancakes, don’t you?_

The reply takes a while so Bucky arranges his backpack under his head and huffs out a sigh, annoyed with himself for being in this situation. Angry at HYDRA for _everything_ they’ve done to him. Angry at the world for letting it happen.

**From: Steve**

_I love pancakes._

**To: Steve**

_Get some sleep, Stevie. I’ll text you tomorrow._

**From: Steve**

_Stay safe, Buck._

**To: Steve**

_You too._

It takes Bucky a long time to get to sleep.

*

With morning brings pain. Bucky’s body is aching tenfold from sleeping in the cold on the ground, but he takes his time to stretch out and work out the kinks. His very bones protest at every movement. His stomach is growling it’s irritation at being unfed, even though he had one of his three MREs last night.

He needs to find a stream—his water is almost gone. He high-tails it up a tree and looks around. There’s a weird-looking tree line not too far from here, indicating either a river or stream. There’s no sign of people in sight though.

He gets down from the tree and flicks Steve a ‘good morning, still alive’ text before heading off in the direction of the water. It takes him three hours to get there and by the time he’s kneeling at the water’s edge and filling up his bottle, his body is shaking. He needs to eat, especially with his super-serumed metabolism, but he can’t afford to just yet. He has no idea how long he’s going to be in this damned forest.

Maybe he’ll set up a trap tonight, try catch a rabbit or something. It’s almost odd he hasn’t run into any predators yet, but maybe they’re avoiding him.

He takes his fill of water before tucking his bottle away. The river isn’t _that_ cold and he really is starting to stink. He needs to wash his shirt at the very least. He sighs at himself and sets his backpack down on a rock where he can watch it and strips, bringing his shirt with him into the river. He washes that first, getting all the crusted blood off of it.

As he’s scrubbing at his skin, trying to get both blood and dirt off in the frigid water—he misjudged it, the water is fucking freezing—his phone goes off from inside his pocket on the rock. He finds himself hurrying his wash, ducking his head under and giving his hair a quick rub. His movements are stiff and jerky as he trudges out of the river and he’s thankful for the weak sun shining down on the rocks as he spreads himself out on the top of one.

It starts warming him instantly, slowing his shivers enough so he can grab his phone. It’s Steve, who else would it be, and it’s a reply to his earlier text.

**From: Steve**

_Glad you’re still kicking, Buck. What’re your plans for the day? I’ve got endless customers here._

Bucky snorts, glancing around himself. He’s spread his shirt out on another rock, willing it to dry faster. He’ll have to move on as soon as he’s dry, he’s got absolutely no time to waste.

**To: Steve**

_I got that job, it’s a two-day thing. Should get me enough cash to head to London. Hope you have a good day :)_

The smiley face is impulse. He grins to himself as he sends it, before tucking his phone away and dressing again. His shirt isn’t dry, so he just pulls his jackets on and ties the damp shirt to his backpack. He crosses the river, jumping from rock to rock, and checks his compass before heading off.

Hours of the same scenery pass. He and Steve text a little more, but Steve’s in the middle of his festival day so he doesn’t have much time to spare. Bucky’s climbed a few more trees to see if there’s anything new, but he doesn’t find _anything._ His stomach is growling with more intensity now and his feet are starting to drag as his energy dwindles. He’ll have to give in and have a protein bar sometime soon.

It’s dark before he allows himself to stop. Steve will be asleep by now—they said goodnight half an hour ago and he’s turned off his phone to save the dwindling battery. Bucky looks around in the dim light, keen eyes picking out a place to set up camp. He makes a little trap out of what resources he has and then settles down in a half-assed hut ten minutes away.

He inhales an MRE, downing it so fast he barely tastes it. There are more sounds in the forest tonight, creatures padding through the trees, birds swooping low across the ground, hunting for mice and insects. Bucky shuts his eyes tight and ignores the feeling of panic that’s starting to crawl up his throat. What if he never gets out of this forest?

*

He wakes up to the faint smell of smoke. He can’t see it, but there’s something burning close by. He crawls out of his makeshift hut and groans at the pull of his muscles. As he walks to his trap to see if he’s caught anything he keeps an eye out for the source of the smoke. There’s nothing in the trap and he dismantles it irritably, pulling a protein bar out of his backpack to quiet the rumbling in his stomach.

He heads off as soon as he grabs his compass out, still munching away at the protein bar—the things taste like _dirt—_ and tries to be optimistic about this whole thing. He fails. There is no upside to this unplanned adventure. He could be in Berlin with Steve eating pancakes and instead he’s trudging through the forest gagging on bars that shouldn’t be people food.

He’s allowed to be bitter, okay?

The smell of smoke gets stronger as Bucky walks and he takes care to step lightly, hiding his presence from any other form of life. He finds a—a _house._ The smoke is coming from the chimney. The house is nestled in the trees and there’s a long driveway connected to it, winding down out of the forest. Bucky’s heart leaps in his chest; he’s found his way out.

It doesn’t take him long to walk down the driveway and find a road and from there find a small town, steal a car and he’s off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Ten**

The flight to London is the end of a very long week of disaster for Bucky. He got captured by HYDRA, had to find his way out of a forest, had to drive to the nearest airport—which was _domestic,_ so he had to fly from there to an international airport—and then hopped on a plane to land in the UK.

At least there was no more funny business in the airports and he managed to actually _get_ to London. He’d been possibly the most careful he’s been in his life but he’s here. His feet are on British asphalt and he’s kicking at puddles as he hunches his shoulders against the light drizzle coming from the overcast sky. The thing about London is that there are trains _everywhere._ It’s all he can hear. It puts him even more on edge than he already is.

He’s a whole day early—Seven Lions doesn’t arrive in London till tomorrow afternoon. He’s damn set on finding a hotel that doesn’t ask questions and throwing himself into a hot shower and then a bed. He’s got some money left over from the HYDRA base he raided, so he’s going to budget that on the hotel, the tattoo he’s planned with Steve and some goddamn pancakes.

His mental state is worrying him. Sleep is needed immediately.

The hotel he finds is nondescript; he nearly misses it. He books for four nights and drags himself up the stairs to his room, locking the door behind him and glaring at the bed, which is being very seductive. Instead of collapsing into the blankets and passing out, he makes himself take a shower and brush his damn hair. Once he’s deemed himself ready for a long, _long_ sleep, he crawls under the covers and releases a massive sigh.

He falls asleep to the sound of rain hitting the window and trains screaming on tracks nearby. He doesn’t sleep well at all.

*

The first thing he does when the sun rises is roll over and lay on his back after his nightmare-induced morning workout. He takes his time to just breathe and remind himself that he’s alive and he’s free. He runs his fingertips over the tattoos on his face and groans, rubbing at his eyes. He grabs a hair tie from his backpack as he gets out of bed, scraping his hair into a bun. The length has gotten to his shoulders now and he’s not sure if he’s going to trim it or not.

He dresses slowly, pulling on jeans, boots and his now-dry shirt, yanking on a jacket after it. He has his knives on him but he leaves the guns behind on an afterthought. He’ll be able to pick up his stashed weapons bag as soon as Seven Lions arrives—if no one’s found it or it’s fallen out of it’s hiding spot.

Breakfast consists of a club sandwich, a piece of bacon-and-egg pie, an omelette and several coffees. He’s pretty sure the barista takes pity on him and adds extra shots into the coffee. He does look a little...worse for wear. It’s whatever. He’s looked worse.

The day goes slow. He and Steve text back and forth until Steve arrives in London and has to help with the setup of the festival. Bucky sits in a library listening to music, headphones in and learning all the different genres. He finds he loves the 90s the most. When the library closes he pulls his hood up and heads towards the festival venue, sneaking into the ‘staff only’ carpark and hunting down the truck that has his weapons stash hidden on it.

He collects the bag and heads back to the hotel, dropping it off unseen before texting Steve that he’s on his way and heading straight back out. Steve’s waiting at the entrance of the venue, looking at his phone and leaning against the wall. He doesn’t see Bucky as he walks up the pathway and Bucky takes the time to observe Steve.

He looks tired, eyes sunken in more than usual and shoulders slumped. Bucky wonders for the first time just how worried Steve was about him—and he finds himself selfishly surprised at the fact that someone _liked_ him enough to worry.

When he’s close enough, Bucky clears his throat and Steve’s attention snaps to him, head flying up and eyes meeting his. No matter how tired he looks, Steve’s whole face lights up and he gives Bucky a big grin. He takes a step forward and reaches his arms out, before hesitating and looking unsure.

Bucky grunts and accepts the hug, wrapping his own arms around Steve and being extra careful to hold him gently. Steve hums in his ear and Bucky’s whole body is tingling at being this close to someone. He draws back after a moment, smiling down at the ground before looking back up at Steve with what he’s sure is the dopiest expression.

“Hey, Steve,” he says.

“You’re an idiot,” Steve says fondly, the blue of his eyes dancing with delight.

Bucky grins. “Wanna get some dinner?” he asks, gesturing towards the street to their right. “I saw a place down there that doesn’t look too bad.”

Steve nods, letting him lead the way. They walk almost shoulder to shoulder and Bucky’s going to vibrate out of his skin. Steve’s watching him with bright eyes. “You look thinner,” he murmurs, voice hesitant like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say it. “You said you were taking care of yourself.”

Bucky chokes on the ‘what are you, my mum?’ that threatens to come up. His face goes carefully blank before he shifts his gaze to the ground and presses his lips together. He hasn’t thought about his mum in a long, long time. He found out what happened to her, of course, but it had been so painful he’d shoved it to the back of his mind.

“I’m alive,” he offers Steve, returning his attention to him and smiling tentatively.

Steve’s watching him closely, searching Bucky’s face, but he doesn’t say anything about what he finds there. “I’m glad,” is all he murmurs.

Bucky’s stomach does a somersault and he has to look away to avoid grinning so hard it breaks his cheeks. “Me too,” he replies, and is happy to find that it’s _true._ Steve’s helped him so much in ways he’ll probably never truly know.

“So what’s this place you’re talking about?” Steve asks, changing the subject.

Bucky points at it, watching as Steve follows his direction. “It has pancakes on the dinner menu,” he says.

Steve grins at him. “Really? You’re holding onto the pancake thing, aren’t you?”

“You have a thing for pancakes,” Bucky confirms.

Steve snorts and turns into the restaurant. The moment they enter they’re greeted by a bushy-tailed waitress who offers them a table beside the windows. She gives them the menus and takes their drink order—black coffee and an orange juice—before leaving them to decide on a dish.

“How was Berlin?” Bucky asks when he’s sipping at his coffee.

Steve smiles around the straw of his orange juice and sits back, eyes going distant as he remembers it. “Busy. We didn’t get much time to look around apart from when I went out with Dernier, but the festival was all go,” he says.

“And what’s on the agenda for London?”

Steve shrugs, eyes scanning the menu. “I’ve set aside some sessions for your tattoo—we’re not gonna get it all done here, I don’t think, but most likely the outline and we’ll do as much of the colour as we can.”

Bucky shifts in his seat, smile growing. “You said you had sketches?” he prompts.

Steve snorts, already reaching for his bag. “I didn’t have much to go off, but—” he offers Bucky the paper and Bucky is maybe a bit eager getting them in his hands. Steve laughs as Bucky pores over the images, eyes dancing with delight.

“These are amazing,” Bucky breathes.

Steve flushes, but his face gives away how pleased he is. “We’ll sort out the placements tomorrow.”

Bucky’s nodding, gloved fingers smoothing over the lines and rich colour. The dominant colours are a deep forest-emerald green, as well as fiery orange and yellow. The tentacles of the sea monster curl over the page, creating a sense of them leaping into action, coming to life. Bucky finds himself touching his neck, imagining where the tattoos will be. He wants them to be all over his body, down his back, sides, hips and legs as well as over his shoulders and curling up by his neck.

“Steve, I—I can’t wait to have this on me,” Bucky murmurs, transfixed.

When he looks up, Steve’s watching him with softness etched into the lines of his face, the fondness shining through. He parts his lips as if to say something, but the waitress has returned, smile wide and pen and paper in hand. They order a plate of pancakes and a side of fries before settling back into easy conversation.

Tracy Chapman is on the stereo and Bucky mentions it, causing Steve’s face to light up as he launches into a story of how his ma used to play the CD in the kitchen every evening during dinner time.

“Where’s your ma now?” Bucky asks lightly.

Steve’s face dims a bit and he looks down. “She passed away two years ago,” he murmurs. “It wasn’t— _sudden,_ but. I’ll never move past it, y’know?” he says, and Bucky is struck by how deep Steve’s soul is and by how much Steve _feels._

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, waiting for Steve to look up again. When he does, Bucky offers a small smile that’s returned. “My ma passed a long time ago,” he continues. “My pa, too.” And everyone else, he doesn’t add.

Steve’s forehead creases, but the topic drifts away as their food arrives. They dig in, Bucky trying not to just shovel the hot food down his throat. He makes himself take sips of his coffee in between bites as he and Steve move onto talking about other things like Steve’s work, Bucky’s travels and other trivial matters.

They split the bill and step out onto the street. “Have you got a hotel yet?” Bucky asks.

Steve shakes his head, looking sheepish. “I was helping set up the festival, then came straight here,” he explains.

“Did you wanna have a look at mine? It’s not too far from here,” Bucky suggests.

Steve nods and they set off, commenting on things they see along the way. Bucky finds himself cooing at a dog they walk past and he _nearly_ blushes when he catches Steve smiling at him. Nearly.

Steve checks into the hotel and ends up getting the room next to Bucky’s. They say goodnight, both wanting to retire early after a busy day. Bucky doesn’t miss the way they both linger in their doorways before heading inside to get ready for bed.

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Eleven**

After spending an hour tossing and turning in his bed, Bucky re-dresses and heads out, skin itching and body aching to do _something._ He stumbles across a busy street teeming with clubs and bars alike. He checks how much cash he’s got before heading into the first one and buying a drink. It goes from there.

London nightlife is fast-paced; Bucky constantly has a drink in his hand, someone is always asking to dance and he ends up enjoying himself a tremendous amount more than he thought he would. He’s not sure how he ended up in this particular club, but he has a vague memory of someone telling him the name and sending him on his way.

He’s had more to drink than he should have; much more than he would be able to handle without the serum and he’s dancing with less grace than he had earlier in the night. With HYDRA on his tail he probably shouldn’t have let himself get this drunk, but he’s argued the point of this being _fun_ to himself so much that he’s forgotten he should be keeping a clear head.

It’s the alcohol that makes his eyes skip over the man at the bar once, twice. The third time his attention snaps back, his movements shuddering to a stop as his mind catches up to the fact that _that’s Steve._ Steve’s at the bar. Steve’s at this club. Steve’s _here_ and Bucky’s drunk and he’s gawping like an idiot in the middle of the dancefloor.

He shakes himself and makes to head over to Steve and say hi when—there’s a guy next to Steve. He’s got his hair slicked back, an easy smile on his handsome face and he’s pulling up a stool, sitting down and ordering a couple of drinks. Bucky goes still again, the drink swirling around his head and turning to lead in his stomach.

He doesn’t understand why this is his reaction to a guy hitting on Steve, except he does. He’s _jealous,_ terribly so, and it makes him feel ugly inside.

Bucky goes to turn away from Steve and the man—there are hands on Bucky, tugging to pull him back into the mass of moving, swaying, hypnotic bodies—but abruptly, the scene changes. Steve’s standing, hands curled into fists and the man has drawn himself up, face pulled into a sneer, disgust written deep into his frown lines. Bucky reads his lips so clearly it’s like he can hear the man’s words; _Fucking tranny, trying to trick me into thinking you aren’t one of those butch lesbians. So desperate for something up your arse you gotta dress like a guy, huh? Coulda just asked, dyke._

It’s like a bullet to Bucky’s sternum and he nearly doubles over with it. He can’t imagine why someone would spew that kind of filth over someone as bright and good and _fierce_ as Steve. Why someone would want to hurt him. Bucky’s moving forwards, winding through the bodies, watching, expecting Steve to retaliate, to swing at the man, to say something back, but. Nothing. Steve looks strangely withdrawn. Hurt, even though he’s struggling not to show it on his face. Bucky reads him like a damn book.

Bucky reaches them just as Steve’s tune changes and he lashes out, catching the guy right on the jaw and cracking his teeth together. The guy stumbles backwards, catching himself on the bar before clutching his face and becoming the incarnate of self-righteous fury. Like he can’t believe this has happened to _him._

Bucky wants to pull out every one of his teeth and feed him his own fingers.

Steve’s going in for another hit.

“Hey—Steve, _Steve —”_ Bucky slides in between them, hands up as Steve draws his fist back again.

Steve stumbles, eyes going wide as his brain catches up to the fact that Bucky’s here. “Buck? What—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish before the guy behind Bucky is trying to push around Bucky to get to Steve. The guy throws a punch but, quick as lightning, Bucky catches it in his metal hand and _squeezes._ The guy goes deathly pale at the sudden pain and Bucky grinds his jaw at the sensation of tiny bones cracking under his grip. He pulls the guy in close.

“Stay the _fuck_ away from me and him, or I swear to anything that’s listening, I will _end_ you,” he hisses into the guy’s face. “And don’t you dare let me catch you spitting any of that filth again.”

The guy looks pitifully afraid and something about it turns Bucky’s stomach. He’d forgotten what it was like, dishing out violence so carelessly. He drops the guy’s fist like it’s a hot pan and steps away from him. The man curls in on himself, face a picture of agony. Bucky swallows against a dry throat and turns to Steve.

Steve looks shocked and _stormy._ It makes Bucky incredibly nervous. “We should go,” Steve says, voice low.

Bucky nods, ducking his head and following Steve out of the club. Security is rushing towards where they’ve left that man and Bucky watches them as they leave, making sure no one’s coming towards them. Steve’s angry—Bucky can read it in the line of his shoulders and the way his footsteps are heavier than usual, indicating he’s incredibly tense. Now that the adrenalin spike has worn off, the fact that Bucky’s drunk hits him in the side of the head with an ache and he stumbles. He tells himself to get it together.

“Steve?” Bucky asks as soon as they’re down the street. His voice sounds small even to his own ears.

Steve’s shoulders come up around his ears. “What, Bucky? Whaddya what me to say? You just broke that guy’s hand,” comes the cold reply.

Bucky drags his teeth across his bottom lip, eyes on the sidewalk. “He said that stuff about you—he was gonna _hit_ you —”

“Like that gives you any right!” Steve’s spun around, feet planted and body drawn up like he’s still waiting for a fight. Every part of Bucky aches, especially because Steve’s right. Steve scowls. “I can handle myself. Believe it or not, I’ve heard worse,” he says.

Bucky can’t look him in the eye. He’s a _coward,_ is what he is. “I’m sorry, I just —” he doesn’t have anything. His brain is muddled and he curses himself for drinking because he can’t _think._ But deep down he knows that even if he was sober—he has no _excuse._ There isn’t one.

“You just what? Thought you’d step in and save the damsel in distress? Win her heart?” Steve scoffs, turning back around and storming off.

Bucky chokes as he hears Steve’s voice wobble and he feels cold as he rushes after him. Steve had sounded sad, beneath all that anger. Desperate, too. Like he expected Bucky to agree with him. “What are you talking about? I just wanted to _help,_ I didn’t _think,_ he was going to hurt you!” Bucky calls after Steve, jogging to catch up.

“Yeah, maybe! It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. I don’t need some _guy_ with a saviour complex finishing my fights for me, okay? Just because you know I’m —” Steve cuts off, slowing down a little. His shoulders have dropped. He looks—small, in a way Bucky never wants to see again.

He watches Steve take a deep breath and kick a rock out of his path. “Steve?” Bucky asks.

“You don’t need to treat me any different now you know, Buck,” Steve says, voice distant. Defeated. Tired.

Bucky blinks at him, lost and confused and wanting a hug. He tries to figure it out—going over the whole thing in his mind, trying to piece things together but he _doesn’t get it._ His whole thought process is delayed. “I don’t understand,” he says softly.

Steve sighs, looking away. He clenches his jaw, scowling at nothing, before staring Bucky right in the eye like he’s issuing a challenge. “I’m trans, Bucky,” he says, voice irritated but it’s got an undercurrent of nervousness.

Bucky blinks. Oh. It makes sense now, what the man had been saying. Makes it worse. Makes Bucky want to—“Oh,” he says, because he’s a numbskull and also not very good at saying the right things ever—even _without_ the alcohol.

Bucky’s thoughts immediately travel to Brooklyn in the 1930s and the queer scene there, the people he met and the people he loved and the people who loved him. He remembers people like Dot, blood from a split lip mixing with her red red lipstick, grin on her face as she takes him back to her place, her ill-fitted skirt shucked up around her thighs as she rocked against him. He remembers people like O’Conner, forever stumbling into the various bars with blood on his face and his boyfriend trailing behind yelling _the pigs are comin’!_ He remembers the fear as they all ran, everyone making sure everyone got out safe.

Steve’s face hardens at Bucky’s silence. “Yeah, oh. See you ‘round, Buck. Or not.”

Steve’s _leaving_ and Bucky’s a fucking _idiot_ and Steve thinks he hates him because of _who he is._ Bucky breaks into a run, catching up with Steve because he’s not gonna lose him, no way. “Steve, I was just surprised—I don’t—I’m not— _fuck.”_ His tongue is tripping over itself, goddamnit. “You being you doesn’t change anything, Steve, it doesn’t make me think of you any different,” Bucky tries.

Steve’s stopped again. He’s looking at Bucky with narrowed eyes, gaze searching like he’s gonna find something to prove Bucky’s lying. Bucky waits, because it’s all he can do. Eventually, Steve sighs. “Alright, Buck,” is all he says, and throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and pulls him in for a hug.

Bucky goes easily, happily, and tucks himself under Steve’s chin. Immediately, he feels waves of relief and warmth and happiness crashing over him. He’s so tired but everything’s _okay._ “I’m sorry for gettin’ in between you and that scumbag, Steve,” he murmurs.

Bucky bounces against Steve’s chest as Steve laughs. “It’s okay, Buck. Sorry for overreactin’.”

“That’s okay. You never know what kind of reaction you’re gonna get, huh?”

Steve snorts. “It varies for sure, yeah.”

Bucky smiles, glad Steve can’t see his face otherwise he’d be teasing him about how sappy he looks. “Should we go back to the hotel, now?” he asks. He’s exhausted and he wants to be somewhere quiet and safe.

“We could,” Steve says, pulling back and releasing Bucky. He searches Bucky’s face, a dash of amusement finding its way into Steve’s eyes. “You’re a little drunk, aren’t you?” he asks. Bucky just nods sheepishly. Steve sighs, turning in the direction of the hotel. He keeps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Let's get you into bed, then,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky smiles and nods, feeling guiltily warm and safe under Steve’s arm. Steve smiles back and they start walking. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky watches as Steve shakes his head to himself, eyes on the ground like he can’t believe what’s just happened. Bucky swallows, returning his focus to the sidewalk. He can’t help but wonder how well Steve would take it if he found out about Bucky’s secret.

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Twelve**

The next day Bucky wakes up in the darkness of his hotel room. He’s undressed, the curtains are drawn shut and there’s a glass of water on the bedside table. He has the memory of Steve tucking him in and locking the door behind him as he left swirling around in his sleep-addled brain. He remembers the soft sound of Steve giggling and he remembers falling into a deep, dreamless sleep with a smile on his face.

He feels warm inside as he slips out from under the covers and pads over to the bathroom. He wets a flannel with warm water and washes his face, focusing his mind on his body's sluggish movements. He’s not hungover, as such, but the alcohol is still working its way out of his system.

And then it hits him—he woke up undressed. Did Steve see his arm? Oh, god, _did Steve see his arm._ He steadies himself against the wall and takes a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to force the panic out of his system. His headache grows, making his eyes hurt. God, he hopes he got himself undressed. He hopes Steve didn’t see anything. He guesses he’ll find out when he turns up at the festival. Or if there are authorities waiting for him outside the hotel. Surely they would just come and arrest him as soon as they found out? But would Steve really call the cops on him? God.

He’s going to need to apologise to Steve again today for his actions last night.

And then he gets a mushy feeling right in his belly and he huffs out a breath, opening his eyes. Steve had told him—Steve _trusted_ him enough to tell Bucky he was trans. Sure, it was under less than savoury circumstances, but Steve could have brushed it off and ignored it. Instead he talked to Bucky and explained and Bucky feels like he’s on top of the world.

After his morning routine, he finds a text from Steve on his phone.

**From: Steve**

_Morning, Buck. Hope your headache isn’t too bad! Come down to the festival around nine and we’ll hash out your tattoo. We’ll start on the outline today, too! Maybe even get it done if we’re feeling up to it. :)_

Bucky feels fuzzy. Maybe Steve didn’t see anything? He tucks his phone away and locks his door behind him, heading out to the cafe he knows is across the road. He picks up a cappuccino for Steve and an americano for him. He’s only wearing a glove on his metal hand and he lets the to-go-coffee warm up his skin. He’s got his Moscow scarf tight around his neck this morning and his breath is coming in clouds of air in front of his face.

The streets are teeming with people but none of them look twice at him. He reaches the festival and passes security with a nod; they seem to recognise him by now. He finds Steve’s stall with no problem, nestled in the corner across from Dernier’s. Steve’s buried in his sketch book, pens and pencils scattered around him on the table. Bucky’s stomach is in knots.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky greets, pausing at the entrance of the stall.

Steve looks up, startled, before his face breaks into a wide grin. “Mornin’, Buck.” His eyes go to the coffees and he gestures for Bucky to come sit down.

Bucky does, sliding Steve’s coffee over to him and sipping at his own. “I owe you a proper apology for last night,” he says, finding the words coming out easy as pie. It’s true, even as Steve’s face goes soft and his lips shape the words ‘it’s okay’. “Steve, I shouldn’t have punched that guy. I should handled it differently. I could have come over and said hi and got you away from him, but I guess I went with the ‘defend what doesn’t need defending’. You had it.”

Steve smiles. “I appreciate it, Buck, I do. Thanks for sayin’ that. And for the coffee.”

Bucky grins at him, content with the knowledge that Steve’s not treating him any different because of Bucky’s actions. “So we’re good?” Bucky confirms.

“Are we?” Steve raises an eyebrow, subtly checking in on Bucky’s side of things, too.

Bucky laughs. “So good.” He nods, setting his coffee down. “So, I have some thoughts on the placing,” he begins.

They launch into tattoo-talk, Bucky guiding Steve as he sketches out the placement of the large tattoo. His eyes are dancing with excitement and Bucky can barely contain his own. “We won’t be able to start on colour today,” Steve says. “But we should be able to get the outline down if we take a couple of breaks. Did you bring anything to eat?”

Bucky shakes his head. Steve rolls his eyes and stands, leading Bucky over to the tattooing area. “We could get some sandwiches? There’s a cafe round the corner,” Bucky suggests, looking to Steve for confirmation.  

Steve just nods, starting the transfer. Bucky watches him go through the tattoo prep and then—and then realisation hits him in the side of the head like a baseball bat. He’s going to have to take his shirts off. Which means showing his arm. And he can’t—there’s no way he can do that. The design skips over all and any parts of the metal arm, obviously, but it goes over parts on that side of his body, including his neck.

He takes a deep breath and starts shucking off his layers till he’s down to his long sleeved shirt. He pulls that off but leaves the body of it tucked under his armpit, making sure it’s covering all of the metal. It reveals a lot of his more brutal scarring, hinting at more trauma, but as long as the metal isn’t showing he’s not bothered.

When he looks up, Steve’s watching him. His lips are parted slightly, his eyes a bit unfocused. Or, rather, too focused. On Bucky. Bucky shifts awkwardly, knows his map of scars is a bit unnerving. “Alright, Steve?” he prompts, a bit concerned.

Steve seems to shake himself and then he’s meeting Bucky’s gaze with apologetic eyes. “Sorry, it’s just—” he trails off, clearly not knowing what to say.

Bucky smiles at him, letting him know it’s alright. “Yeah, it’s a bit shocking. You don’t mind me keeping my shirt like this, do you?” he asks, referring to how he’s keeping one arm covered.

“That’s fine, Buck,” Steve assures him, eyes going soft. “Let’s start getting the stencil on you, okay?” he checks.

Bucky nods, sitting back and letting Steve come closer. Steve’s touch is barely there—he’s entirely professional, if a bit gentle when he presses the purple trace onto Bucky’s skin. He seems to avoid Bucky’s left arm and it leaves Bucky feeling guilty and wondering what Steve thinks is there. Whatever it is, he’s probably not expecting a metal arm.

“Okay,” Steve says when he’s finished. The sea monster spreads out over his back and around his sides, trailing down his hips, but they haven’t put those parts on yet. Bucky’s favourite bit is where the tentacles curl up over his shoulders and around his collarbones and neck like an embrace. “Good?” Steve asks, showing him to the full-length mirror.

Bucky smiles, heart thudding in excitement. “Yeah, yes—Steve, this is amazing,” he breathes.

Steve’s cheeks flush a dusty rose and he grins, bright and happy. “Shall we get started, then?” he asks.

Bucky nodding excessively before Steve even finishes the question, returning to the tattoo table and staying sitting up. “Where did you want to start?” he asks.

“We’ll start with your front if that’s okay,” Steve says, readying the tattoo gun.

Bucky nods, laying back so Steve has easy access to the skin he needs. After checking in one last time, Steve steadies Bucky and begins the tattoo. The buzz of the gun, after a while, sounds like it’s coming from inside Bucky’s head. The pain is barely there as Bucky sinks into his head, making sure to still respond to Steve as he checks in every now and then.

Steve moves around to Bucky’s back, getting him to sit up carefully. Before he starts there he hands Bucky a bottle of water and encourages him to keep sipping at it. Bucky grunts and lifts it to his lips, glancing up as he feels Steve’s attention on him. Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Alright, Steve?” he asks, voice hoarse from being quiet for so long.

Steve almost shakes himself, looking away with a sheepish expression on his face. “I was just—” he stops, shaking his head and sighing. “You don’t have to answer, but. You pain tolerance is just,” he pauses again, seeming to search for the right words. “Really high,” he finishes.

Bucky sucks his lower lip into his mouth, thinking on what to say to that. He doesn’t really want to explain that it’s because of all the torture he’s gone through that he’s able to sit for hours at a time while Steve tattoos him and not even flinch. So he shrugs. “Pain is something I know how to deal with,” he murmurs.

There’s something in Steve’s eye that tells him it maybe wasn’t the best thing to say, but Steve just nods, though there’s worry flickering on his face. “I’ve never tattooed someone who doesn’t even flinch,” he says, before shaking his head and dropping it. “Are you okay to carry on?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms, setting the water bottle down and letting Steve get the trace on his back.

It takes a few hours and people stop in to watch, eyes wide and intrigued, or respect on their faces at the size of the tattoo. Steve keeps checking in, almost like he’s expecting Bucky to tap out, but Bucky’s just drifting at the moment, waiting for it to be over. He’s _excited_ to have this on his body, okay? The pain is nothing compared to the result.  

When the top half of his tattoo outline is done, Steve steps back and lets the gun rest. “So, I’m gonna get you cleaned up and covered, then we’ll go for lunch, okay?” he says.

Bucky nods, shifting his position and stretching carefully. He waits patiently as Steve cleans up the fresh tattoos and wraps them before pulling his clothes back on. The cafe is busy so they tuck themselves away in the corner after ordering their sandwiches, Bucky twitchy and uncomfortable from his healing skin.

“Going alright?” Steve asks him.

Bucky smiles tiredly, nodding. “How’re your hands?” he retaliates, genuine concern washing out from him.

“They’re fine, they were getting a little bit cramped so it was good to take a break now,” Steve says, smiling at the waiter as he drops their food off.

Bucky’s already digging in, absolutely famished. They eat like a couple of starved dogs, not bothering to keep up the pretense of conversation till they’re leaning back in their chairs, hands on their bellies. Steve snorts at the pained look Bucky’s wearing on his face and Bucky grunts, giving Steve a mock glare.

“C’mon, you ass. We’ve gotta get back,” Steve says, standing from their table and leading the way out of the cafe.

Bucky trails along behind, a dopey smile on his face. When they get back to Steve’s stall Bucky lays back on the table and shucks his pants off. The rest of the tattoo will trail over his hips and down his legs. Steve gets the trace done quickly and precisely, pressing it onto Bucky’s skin and letting him look at the placement before he starts inking.

They get the rest of the tattoo outline done in under two hours, leaving them both time to sit and have some water and a little bit more food. The sun is shining low in the the sky and Bucky watches it through the windows, chewing on a muesli bar as Steve cleans up his work station. Bucky’s buzzing with the thrill of the tattoos coming along, even though there’s now a constant throbbing pain all over his body.

Bucky helps Steve pack up for the day even though he’s told he doesn’t have to and they head back to the hotel together, both wanting to head to bed early.

They plan to go to the pancake diner for breakfast in the morning.

As the night slides over London, Bucky stands under the shower and stares at the tiled floor, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that’s taken root in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Thirteen**

You’d think that these days he couldn’t get lost. But he can. Anyone can get lost, sometimes. Something can happen and they’ll be spinning, off their axis, everything turned upside down. Unable to find their sense of direction. Everything will be different, perspectives changed, lives they once lived will be gone, hopes they once had will be shattered.

HYDRA agents are pouring into his hotel room, tranq guns and rifles alike raised and pointed directly at him. Stun batons are secured to their sides. Every second agents seems to have a pair of reinforced restraints. And the only thing Bucky feels is lost.

His fingers twitch, wanting to reach up and glide over the tattoos on his face. Steve’s tattoos. Steve—he’s in the next room. Bucky just hopes he doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t come looking to find out what’s going on. It’s Bucky’s worse fear; Steve killed by HYDRA because of him. Steve _captured_ by HYDRA because of him. Steve exposed to this side of his life—the side he has been trying to erase—and getting hurt because of it.

He’s surrounded in less than ten seconds, frozen from where he’d been about to slip into bed. There must be around fifteen of them. Probably more outside. In the back of his mind, he thanks his past self for deciding to put on boxers for bed.

“Hands up, _Soldat.”_ It’s spat at him, hurled out from between yellowed teeth. Bucky feels it settle deep in his gut like rot, like black mold, like _ice._

Bucky thinks, again, of Steve in the next room, thinks of him in the clutches of HYDRA and he puts his hands up. There’s shock on the agents faces and they shift uncomfortably, clearly not expecting an easy surrender. They think this is their Winter Soldier, as frantic to stay free as a wild dog, backed into a corner and ready to bite, to rip, to tear. To fight.

But this is Bucky Barnes, a fella no more inclined to violence and getting the people he loves hurt than the next person you’ll see.

Three of the agents step forwards from their careful ranks, restraints as the ready, tranqs still aimed at him. The barrels of their rifles waver, now that they think he will come quietly. He’s not giving up. He’s not going back alive. But he is _not_ getting innocent people hurt anymore because of him. He will make sure they are out of the city before he tries anything.

He wishes he could leave a note for Steve. He wishes Steve wouldn’t just be left _wondering._ But these are the cards Bucky’s been dealt and he’s not going to give any indication of wanting to tear them apart. He’s angry, he’s desperate, he’s world-weary and he’s no longer an empty killing machine. He will go quietly if it protects the people he’s been lucky enough to love.

Restraints snap over his wrists and his arms come down behind him, drawn tight to his body. His shoulders scream in protest but he ignores them, staring straight ahead. The agents are still cautious; muttering has broken out between them. They are discussing whether or not to tranq him. He doesn’t see why not; it would be the safest bet for them.

He’s slowly resigning himself to what fate has dealt him now, crawling back inside his head and trying to remember the exact pain the Chair will bring.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Bucky?”

Bucky stares at it, adrenaline and undiluted fear punching into his system, sending him rabid. His nostrils flare, his breathing picks up, his eyes roll in his head. _No no no no no—_ and they’re looking at the door too, confusion written on their faces. One of them is reaching to open the door— _no no no no no—_ and Bucky can’t allow this to happen.

Agents are stepping away from him with caution, rifles raised back up to his face. He can hear the safeties being clicked off. “It’s made a friend, has it?” The agent in front of him sneers it with such distaste it curdles Bucky’s stomach and fuels his hate for these monsters.

“He has nothing to do with this,” Bucky says lowly, frustrated with the way his voice shakes at the end. He’s _scared,_ okay? He’s admitting that.

The door handle turns and so does Bucky’s tune on this whole damn situation. The _second_ one of these bastards lays a hand on Steve—the thought cuts off. Bucky’s already pulling the skin of the Winter Soldier up over his head like a hood. His mind is going carefully blank. He’s calculating the best way to deal with this—is there a way to do it before Steve _sees?_ It doesn’t matter. What matters is that they both get out of this alive and with their minds intact.

Half of the rifles are turned towards the door as it swings open. Steve takes a moment to gape at the scene in front of him. “Bucky?” he asks, voice quiet and unsure. It shakes, just as Bucky’s did.

Bucky holds back the rippling violence coiled and howling under his flesh for just a second. If he can convince Steve to go, to get somewhere safe, then nothing horrible has to happen. “I want you to run,” Bucky says, biting off Steve’s name and keeping it to himself. It’s one name HYDRA can never know.

“What? Bucky, what’s happening?” Steve’s voice has become even quieter. He’s pale, Bucky realises. Afraid. Very afraid.

One of the agents sneers. “You found yourself a pet, _sobaka?_ How cute. Pity we can’t take him with us. He’d make a good bargaining chip for when we start beating obedience back into you.”

Maybe it’s because Bucky can’t handle Steve being scared. Maybe it’s because the Winter Soldier has always been lurking under his skin. Maybe it’s because of a deep ingrained instinct to _protect._ Whichever way, Bucky Barnes loses himself.  

The Asset distantly feels the skin of his shoulders tearing as he breaks the cuffs clean in half and takes out the three agents close to him, disabling them of weapons and sending them to the floor dreaming of metal fists. All weapons are trained back on him, fingers going trigger-happy as bullets and tranq darts bury themselves in both the Asset and the wall behind him.

The Asset manages to knock most of the tranq darts out of the way with his metal arm. Advancing on the HYDRA agents, growling low in his throat, he takes them down one by one, two by two, until they’re twitching on the floor. It’s laughably easy, in this state of mind. He’s like a rabid dog. He distantly feels some of them landing hits, landing bullets and landing darts but he doesn’t dare go down.

He doesn’t pause till his fists have touched each of them. He doesn’t pause till he’s felt all of their blood touch his skin. When he knows not a single on of them are getting back up any time soon, the Asset draws to a halt and, chest heaving, bares his teeth at the carnage around him.

None of the agents are dead. They don’t deserve a quick death. They deserve much worse. They deserve a harsh penalty for what’s been done to him.

The Asset doesn’t have time for that. There are more agents waiting _somewhere,_ he knows. He takes a handgun from where it’s strapped to an agent’s side and clicks the safety off, pointing it down at the agent’s head, execution style. The agent is crying. It makes something in the Asset stop, take a second and tilt his head to the side, thinking. Why is he hesitating?

“B-Bucky?”

The Asset whips around, gun trained on the guy’s head. The man in the doorway is dressed in sleep clothes and has no weapons on him. He is shaking. A civilian? “Who the hell is Bucky?” the Asset demands. Even as he says it, the name echoes in the silence of his brain.

Impossibly, the man’s face goes even paler. From beneath his sleep singlet, the beginnings of a tattoo can be seen. It looks like a lion’s mane. It suits the man, the Asset thinks distantly. Something about it makes him think of the sun. “Please stop pointing the gun at me, Buck, you’re scaring me,” the man forces out, voice choked like he’s trying not to cry.

The Asset’s stomach twists uncomfortably, like this is the worst possible thing. The gun in his hands wavers—something that’s never happened before. He’s dropping it, next, the sound of it clattering to the floor echoing in his ears. His vision warps and it’s like he’s looking through a tunnel and—he’s full of bullets and tranquilizer darts. His body shudders all over and his limbs go weak and he’s—he’s—

He’s staring up at the man from the ground, jaw working, trying to say something. His lips are shaping a word, maybe a name. The man looks more afraid than he was before. The Asset wants to tell him it’ll be okay. The man isn’t in danger anymore. The Asset is out of commission. He wonders how fast the man can run. Can he get far enough away before the agents are able to get up?

Shadows are swarming in front of the Asset, dragging him down, dragging him under. Tiredly, he fights against unconsciousness. The man in the doorway is stepping into the room cautiously, hands reached out towards the Asset like he wants to do something. The Asset can’t hear him, but the man is speaking.

The Asset’s world tilts sideways and he slips underwater, body floating down, down, down—away from the surface. Away from the lion-chested man. Away from the red haze of pain tinting his world.

He wonders if the agents will wake before him. He wonders if they will take him or kill him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Fourteen**

When Bucky opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of an off-white ceiling and the feeling of displacement. He is not where he fell asleep. He is on his feet in a second, but a moment later he’s on his knees with a crash and gasping out, hands flying to press at bullet wounds. His fingers meet bandages. He traces the edges of the gauze, frowning down at the many places he’s been patched up.

And he remembers.

He remembers the agents pouring into his room, he remembers them filling him with tranquilizer and bullets as he tore them down. He remembers Steve watching, horror cut into the lines of his face. Bucky stares blankly ahead, drowning in the memories, drowning in the knowledge he let Steve see _that._ He put Steve in danger.

“You’re awake.”

Bucky flinches, coming back to the present and staring up at Steve, who is standing in the doorway. Bucky swallows against a dry throat. He drops his hands from his body, subconsciously tucking as much of his metal arm behind himself as he can. He feels off-balance, unsure where to go from here.

Steve’s still waiting for him to say something. Bucky wets his lips. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, eyes flickering away before he forces himself to meet Steve’s iron gaze.

“You have so much explaining to do,” Steve growls, but his voice _wavers_ and Bucky feels like the worst person in existence. “I figured there was something wrong with your arm—whether it be scars or whatever—but _this?_ This is so much more than a messed-up past, Bucky.”

Bucky wants to crawl into a hole and stay there for a long, long while. “I told you, it’s a long story,” he whispers.

“We have all day,” Steve says, walking into the room and sitting on the bed. “I have far too many questions, Buck. I need answers. Is your name even Bucky Barnes?”

There’s something in Steve’s voice that makes Bucky’s stomach lurch. He gets up, careful of his wounds, and sits on the bed, back against the headboard. “Did you patch me up?” he asks. “Does anyone know about this?” He’s figured they’re in a different hotel.

Steve looks reluctant, but he answers Bucky’s questions anyway. “No one saw me dragging your half-dead ass to a new hotel, no. They were too busy gawking at the emergency services headed towards the one those people shot up.”

Bucky nods, huffing out a sigh of relief. “We have time, then,” he murmurs. “You might—you might not believe me,” he starts.

“Try me,” Steve challenges, jaw clenched and eyes strong, defiant.  

And, well, who is Bucky to deny him?

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes and I was born on March 10th, 1917,” he starts.

And he proceeds to tell him _everything._ About getting drafted, about the war, about Azzano and the serum, about the train and what came after. He skips over most of the details of what happened during his time as a captive, vaguely mentions waking up with the metal arm and how he was brainwashed and trained into becoming the Winter Soldier. He explains what the Winter Soldier _means,_ explains how he escaped nearly three years ago. Explains what he’s been doing since then. Explains how HYDRA are still after him, brushes over what will happen if they take him alive.

He falls silent when he’s done, finds himself staring at the plates of his metal hand. He’s shaking. His voice is hoarse. The sun is low in the sky. He has been talking for hours upon hours and Steve has not said a word. Bucky waits. And waits. And waits some more, his heartbeat picking up pace. He shifts uncomfortably, skin itching as his wounds heal.

“They had you for seventy years,” Steve whispers.

Bucky looks up, horrified to find Steve’s eyes shiny as he stares at him. Steve’s face is the picture of heartbreak, lips parted and cheeks pale, eyebrows pulled together. Bucky presses his lips together, nodding. Steve closes his eyes. Bucky refrains from wiping away the tear that escapes Steve’s eye, instead watching it make a trail down his cheek.

Steve opens his eyes again, realisation clouding over them as things start to click into place. “Your first tattoos -”

“Freedom,” Bucky finishes for him, allowing a smile to make its way tentatively onto his face.

Steve stares at him, fish-mouthing as he tries to find something to say. Bucky hums low in his throat and moves to get up as Steve stays quiet. “Wait—” Steve blurts out and Bucky pauses, looking down at him. Steve closes his mouth and shakes his head, looking away. “You’re not—you’re not going to leave, are you?” he asks, voice quiet.

“You mean too much to me to put you in danger like that again, Steve,” Bucky murmurs, already reaching for his backpack.

Steve’s face turns frantic and Bucky can practically see his brain turning over. “But—where will you go?” he whispers, voice cracking.

Bucky presses his lips togethers and has to look away. “Steve,” he begins.

“No, no, I’m not— _stopping_ you, but.” Steve stops, looking down and biting his lip. “Will I ever see you again?” he asks, looking up with shiny eyes.

Bucky swallows around the lump in his throat, watching Steve through his eyelashes. “I don’t—”

“My farm,” Steve cuts in again, expression turning desperate but wild with hope. “It’s in Troupsburg. You can go there. You’ll be safe, I swear, and I’ll be there in a month, Sam and Clint won’t ask questions—”

“Steve,” Bucky stops him from rambling and Steve shuts his jaw, watching Bucky with wide eyes. Bucky lets his eyelids slide closed. “I can’t ask that of you.”

Steve makes a frantic sound low in his throat. “You’re not, Buck. I’m asking it of _you.”_

When Bucky looks at him again he sees the openness there, the truth bright and burning in Steve’s eyes. There is blossoming love etched into the shadows of Steve’s face. Bucky blinks in surprise, lips parting as realisation sets in. Steve’s expression turns slightly pained and he looks almost sheepish. “You—” Bucky starts, but he lets it drop off, floating in the air between them.

Steve looks away. “Yeah, Buck. I, uh, I might. Like you. A bit. A lot. You mean _so much_ to me, and if you go to my farm I’ll know where you are, okay? I’ll know you’re safe.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. “Even after all I told you?” he rasps. Steve nods. Bucky grinds his back teeth together, fighting for something to say. “I’ve _killed_ people, Steve,” he snaps, growing irrationally angry as shock well and truly sets in.

Steve’s face turns stormy. “It wasn’t your fault,” he insists.

“I know, but _I did it._ It was my hands. My body,” Bucky retaliates.

Steve glares at him. “You don’t get to tell me what I feel, Bucky,” he growls.

Bucky goes quiet again, letting that sink in. And he thinks about it. Living on Steve’s farm. Waiting for him to get back from the festival. Living with _Steve._ He thinks about it. He—god—he lets himself entertain the idea, lets himself spin a fantasy that—if he accepts Steve’s offer—could be reality.

“Are you sure?” Bucky whispers, voice unbearably soft.

Steve’s got fire in his eyes. “Yeah, Buck,” he says.

Bucky sits back down. “Why?” He needs to hear it.

“Because I’m sure of _you._ You’re important to me, Buck. I—” Steve stops, wetting his bottom lip and meeting Bucky’s searching gaze. “I need you safe.”

Bucky’s stunned. But he knows the feeling—he has it for Steve. But for someone to have it for him? It stops him in his tracks. Steve is important, someone Bucky would go to hell and back for. Of course, he’d like to avoid doing that, but he’d _do it,_ and that’s what’s important. The decision settles deep inside him and the fight goes right out of the room, leaving the atmosphere simmering and heady.

“Alright,” Bucky agrees.

Steve makes a noise low in his throat that has Bucky drawing closer to him, reaching out with his flesh hand. Steve meets him halfway, rising from the bed and crowding up close, fingers curled loosely around Bucky’s wrists. Bucky’s not breathing. Steve reaches up with one hand and, with shaky movements and wide, watery eyes, he brushes his fingertips over Bucky’s lips. Bucky lets them part with a breath, head swimming as he delves into the depths of Steve’s gaze.

Steve’s touch travels lower, leaving a trail of goosebumps on Bucky’s skin as he moves down his neck, skimming over the outline of his tattoo. Steve explores the marks Bucky bears, the scars and the ink and the way he holds himself. Bucky’s shaking ever so slightly, his whole bloodstream filled with searing flames.

“You’re so warm,” Steve murmurs, eyes flickering back up to meet Bucky’s.

“Please,” Bucky breathes.

Steve’s touch, where it had been so gentle and full of awe before, turns scorching. He cups Bucky’s face and pulls him down, thumbs digging into Bucky’s jaw. Their lips meet like waves on the breakwater, crashing together and moulding into one, moving and fitting around the other. A whimper breaks its way out from Bucky’s throat and he folds his hands over Steve’s hips, desperate to get closer, to feel _more._

Steve must sense him falling apart at the seams, threatening to crack and smash into a thousand pieces, because he gentles their kiss, smoothing his thumbs over Bucky’s cheeks and slowing everything down. Bucky, desperate for everything and anything of Steve, forces himself to slow his racing heart and sinks properly into the embrace, moving with Steve instead of against him. It’s like learning to kiss all over again; the way it affects Bucky sends him reeling into space, his head full of stars.

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs against his lips, before diving right back in again, stealing Bucky’s breath and taking him away from all the bad.

Nothing exists outside Steve in this moment. He’s guiding Bucky back, spreading him out on the bed and continuing to touch him, hands running over his skin. Steve _groans_ as Bucky chases the touch, arching up to meet Steve’s searching hands as they spread over his chest. Bucky gives in. He lets himself be loud, lets the high whine escape his throat as Steve nibbles at his lower lip, sending his oversensitive body into overdrive.

 _“Bucky,”_ Steve breathes, like it’s the amen to Bucky’s prayer.

Bucky whimpers, hunting Steve’s mouth, re-attaching their lips and guiding him back below the surface. Steve goes all too willingly, hands starting to press Bucky into the mattress, nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders as Bucky rocks his hips up into Steve’s. Steve pulls back, gasping into Bucky’s panting mouth and Bucky gets a look at Steve’s eyes—wide as they are blue, pupils blown and full of wonder.

Steve trails his fingertips over the crescents his fingernails have made in Bucky’s skin. Bucky sucks in a breath as Steve moves down Bucky’s body, letting his hot breath wash over Bucky’s exposed throat and down to his pecs. Bucky fights to keep still as Steve presses a wet kiss over some of the marks, his tongue lapping at them before he blows cold air over the wet patch, causing Bucky to give a whole body shiver, screwing his eyes shut.

“God, you’re sensitive,” Steve whispers, sitting back on Bucky’s hips, hands still on his chest.

Bucky opens his eyes to look up at him and grits his jaw to keep still at the sight. Steve’s _disheveled,_ twin patches of crimson painted high on his cheeks and swollen lips parted just so. Bucky feels wrecked, absolutely taken apart, and he _loves_ it.

“Steve,” he pleads, because that’s all he’s capable of at the moment.

Steve shakes his head, sliding off of Bucky and coming to lay at his side, tucking himself up under Bucky’s arm. “We’re both tired,” he murmurs.

“You’re killing me,” Bucky whines, but he understands. They’re not ready. “Steve,” he tries, once he’s calmed down a bit more. Steve looks up at him, a smile on his face. Bucky presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead, just because he can.

Steve closes his eyes and breathes out, relaxing into Bucky’s side. “I think I could grow to like you, Bucky Barnes,” he murmurs, fond amusement colouring his words.

Bucky smiles. “You’re the brightest thing in this universe,” he says so quietly Steve may miss it.

They fall into an easy sleep, breathing syncing and dreams full of light and warmth.

*

The morning brings a bone-deep feeling of peace with it. The rare London sun is filtering in through where the curtains don’t quite meet, warming up a stripe along Bucky’s bare back. Steve’s skin is _hot_ from where he’s pressed up against Bucky’s side and Bucky can feel each breath he takes. He feels torn; he wants to stay here forever, but he needs to leave for Steve’s farm.

He slips out of the bed, careful not to disturb Steve and sets about packing. When he’s done, he puts the kettle on in the small kitchen and sits on the counter while he waits, eyes on the bed. Steve stirs, rolling over onto his back and blinking bleary eyes. He scrubs the sleep from his face and seems to freeze, like everything has just caught up to him. He glances at the empty space beside him and looks up, eyes wide, till he sees Bucky smiling at him.

Steve’s shoulders drop in relief and he returns the smile, sliding off the bed and padding over. Bucky takes his hands, pulling him in close and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. Steve hums and crowds up close, slotting himself between Bucky’s legs and pressing against his chest. Bucky shivers at the feeling of Steve tracing the tattoos now on his chest.

He’d sustained three bullet wounds, all of which have healed over to the point where they don’t need stitches. He’d been elated to learn none of them had ruined any of Steve’s gorgeous art.

“I’m going to leave today,” Bucky murmurs, leaning back to catch Steve’s eye.

Steve nods, a sad smile on his face. “I’ll see you in a month, right? You’ll be waiting when I get there?” There’s an edge of desperation to his voice that sends Bucky reeling. Someone _wants_ him to stick around.

“I’ll be there,” he promises.

They pour their coffee and sit on the bed against the headboard, wrapped up in each other for as long as they can be.

Bucky leaves on a plane for Troupsburg, New York at six in the evening. Steve waves from the airport below, watching the plane till it’s out of sight.

 

* * *

 


	5. Interlude

* * *

 

 

**Interlude**

_ The driveway is long and winding and there is gravel crunching underneath the grip of combat boots. Tall grass dances in the breeze on either side of the driveway and he lets his bare fingers brush through the tops of it, reveling in the feeling of it. The morning sun is climbing higher in the sky, blooming across the land it watches over, caressing his face with its gentle, warm touch.  _

_ The only sound here is of birdsong, sparrows and starlings alike sitting atop the trees and greeting the day. Every now and then a cow will bay, or a sheep will call out, but otherwise there is just his footsteps and his heart beating in his ears. It’s peaceful in a way he never thought he would experience.  _

_ At the end of the driveway the house sits tall and proud, graceful in a way only older houses seem to be. On the porch there is a man dressed in overalls, a gap-toothed grin greeting the man walking up the driveway. He helps take his bags and welcomes him inside, gets him settled in the kitchen with a coffee.  _

_ He asks the man about his travels here. The man replies in depth, recalling the sunset he watched while on the place. His focus is on the orchard he can see the beginnings of out of the window. Plump, red apples hang from the branches, while juicy oranges take up another tree. The land is truly awake now, chickens wandering the land and scratching at the fertile earth.  _

_ From where he sits, the man can see half-finished projects and other jobs decorating the land. It speaks of a future, of things to come and things to happen. The man feels something in his chest unravel as he the land accepts him, wrapping him in it’s leaves as claiming him as one of it’s own. He sees how people get stuck here. He sees how it’s not a bad thing.  _

_ He and the other man delve into silence, watching the earth begin it’s day. Soon, they will go on a tour of the farm and roll up their sleeves, getting to work. Soon they will begin a routine and talk about hundreds of things, getting to know each other. Soon they will laugh over things their mutual friend has done and smile fondly at the things he has made them feel. For now, though, they sip their coffee and the man revels in the fact that he has all the time in the world. _

 

* * *

 


	6. Part Three

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

Life at Steve’s farm is spent as though Bucky is wandering through a dream. It seems far too good to be true and that fact that he’s just been _accepted—_ if a bit dubious at first—makes it all that more unreal. It’s like he’s surrounded by a fog of comfort; he has a bed and Sam loves cooking, so he’s kept well-fed. There’s a roof over his head. He has a _home._

Steve has two farm-hands, although he explained before Bucky flew out that they were more like family. Sam’s been Steve’s best friend since they were little and Steve used to come out and visit his grandfather on the farm. Steve’s talked about Sam before, Bucky remembers. He was the first person to get a tattoo from Steve.

Clint is a little older than them—well, than Sam and Steve—but he comes across as a lot younger. He lives in a cabin at the edge of the farm with the retired farm dog Lucky. Sam insists that Lucky had always been Clint’s dog, although Clint says that Lucky’s all of theirs. They have two other farm dogs now, one black and white border collie and the other a gorgeous pitbull boxer cross who’d been rescued by Steve from being euthanised. Sam introduces them on the first day as Cherub and Bluebell and Bucky falls absolutely in love with them.

Bucky bonds thoroughly with Cherub, finding himself sitting on the porch at the end of a long day and running his hands through her long fur. Sam likes to join him, cracking open a couple of beers and offering one to Bucky. Bucky loves these times, because Sam isn’t bothered by filling the quiet by himself. He tells fantastic stories and Bucky likes to watch his increasingly wild hand gestures as he tells them.

Sam talks about all the adventures he and Steve got up to back in the day, tells Bucky about what kind of trouble they got into. Steve was always getting into fights, apparently, being a whole hell of a lot smaller and thinking he needed to prove something. Sam was always there to back him up.

Sam asks questions too, but he seems to know when not to push. He’s easy to talk to, though, and Bucky knows Steve trusts him more than anyone, plus this is Sam’s home and he should know who he’s got living under his roof. So Bucky finds himself telling Sam his story. Sam’s first reaction is dead-pan disbelief, but then Bucky removes his glove and rolls up his sleeve, letting the metal gleam in the evening light.

Sam, after an arsenal of questions and figuring out if Bucky is a danger to anyone of his friends and family—which, fair enough—wraps Bucky in a hug and mutters something about nazi assholes. It’s good.

Steve and Bucky text every day. Steve’s still jumping around with the festival, though he’s only got one more week till he’s flying to Troupsburg. To say Bucky’s been counting down the days is an understatement. This morning he’d jogged down the stairs and, after pausing to give Cherub a pat, had burst into the kitchen and yelled: “Seven days!” with as must gusto as he could muster.

Sam had dropped the frying pan full of eggs and clutched at his chest, wheezing something about assassins needing bells. Now they’re sitting at the dining table with a fresh batch of fried eggs on toast, sipping on coffee and talking about the day’s work ahead. Clint walks in with Lucky in tow, taking his seat at the table and pouring copious amounts of black coffee before he contributes to the conversation.

“Steve’s back in a week,” Bucky says to him around a mouthful of egg.

Clint shoots Bucky an unamused look before raising an eyebrow at Sam. “Does that mean Sam’s gonna have to move out?” he asks, digging into breakfast with a grin.

“What?” Bucky says, frowning. There’s no reason for Sam to move out; the house has four bedrooms.

Sam rolls his eyes at Bucky over the rim of his coffee cup. “He’s joking. Sort of. Just keep it down with our boy and everything will be fine,” he says.

Bucky narrows his eyes, brain turning over as he works this out. When he gets it, he grunts and leans back in his chair, setting his cutlery down. His mind goes straight to the kiss they shared and how Steve’s skin felt under his hands. Still. “Sam, I don’t even know if—”

“Dude, he sent you _here_ when you had nowhere else to go. He likes you,” Sam interrupts, giving Bucky his no-shit face.

Bucky can feel the blush crawling up his tattooed neck and he avoids continuing the conversation by grabbing another piece of toast and buttering it a little aggressively. Clint cackles from where he’s downing another cup of coffee and sneaking the toast crusts to Lucky under the table. Bucky shakes his head and shoves egg and toast in his face.

The day is spent in the veggie garden, pulling out things that have gone to seed and preparing the soil for the spring plants that will go in. Clint’s off fixing fences somewhere the neighbor's cows got through and Sam’s building a new window frame to replace the one that’s started to rot. Bucky’s work is therapeutic, gets him out of his head and focused entirely on the job at hand. Sam doesn’t miss the fact that it’s with sniper focus that Bucky works.

“It’s nearly one, take a break,” Sam insists, like he usually does. Bucky’s gotten better at accepting any advice Sam gives. “Get some water, make a sandwich.”

Bucky wipes at the sweat running down the back of his neck. His skin has tanned under the steady sun that beats down on the land. “Have you and Clint eaten yet?” he asks.

Sam shakes his head and so Bucky heads back to the house, wiping his hands on his jeans and making sure to shuck his boots off before he goes inside. He makes six sandwiches, two each, before taking a walk to go hunt Sam and Clint down, delivering their lunch to them and stopping for a chat. He returns to the garden afterwards.

Safe to say, Bucky’s kept busy with the farm work and keeping up with Sam and Clint. The week still goes slowly. And Bucky _worries,_ because of course he does. HYDRA had nearly gotten Bucky twice while he’d been on the road and Steve had been there the second time. What if they somehow found out about Steve and who he was? Steve’s in very real danger, Bucky knows, but it’s not long till Steve will be here, safe. It will be fine.

To avoid any risk of messing this all up now, Bucky stays at the farm while Sam goes to pick Steve up from the airport. To avoid going insane while waiting, Bucky helps Clint move the sheep to another paddock. To avoid pacing on the porch when that’s done, Bucky sits on the steps and pets Cherub for comfort.

His heart is pounding in his chest and he’s not entirely sure why, except for the fact that he knows he’s going to be able to hug Steve soon. Very soon. Texting him every day had only made Bucky miss him _more._ It’s almost frightening how attached Bucky’s become since they met. He can hardly believe how much his life has changed, either. Before he was living, but now he feels alive.

He so focused on his train of thought that he doesn’t realise Clint’s beside him till Lucky _boofs_ a hello at Cherub. Bluebell’s sitting at the base of the step, tail wagging furiously like she knows Steve is on his way. She looks like Bucky feels.

“You’re not gonna be all disgusting and cute, are you?” Clint asks, fingers digging into Lucky’s scalp as the dog climbs all over him.

Bucky spares him a glance and rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “We’ll keep it to a minimum,” he murmurs, eyes on the driveway, searching for the tell-tale dust that signals the arrival of a car.

Clint snorts, clearly not believing him in the slightest. They wait in companionable silence, Clint sitting there with a thoughtful look on his face. Bucky turns his attention back to him as Clint turns his body towards Bucky. “We’re happy for him, y’know?” Clint says. “He was lonely, even though he wouldn’t admit it. He loves talking about you and I haven’t managed to get sick of having him happy all the time. You’re a good guy, Bucky.”

Bucky’s ears have gone red but he manages a quick nod, looking away to hide the smile spreading across his face. Clint lets them fall back into the comfort of silence. Bucky sort of drifts off but then Bluebell perks up from the bottom of the stairs, standing to attention and her tail does a slow sway like she’s not sure she’s hearing it right.

Bucky looks to the driveway and, sure enough, that’s Sam’s car headed their way. Bluebell lets out an excited bark that gets Lucky and Cherub on their feet, already bounding towards the approaching car. Bucky gets up too, finding himself nervous for no good reason. Mostly, his excitement has shot through the roof. Clint’s smiling to himself, relaxed at the top of the stairs.

Sam parks up outside the house, old ute coughing away as it stutters to a halt. The dogs are jumping up at the doors and Sam gets out first, shooing them and muttering to himself with a fond look on his face. He grins at Bucky and Clint and _god_ surely Bucky must be shaking because he is absolutely thrumming with—he’s not sure what with. With _everything._

Steve gets out slow, laughing as the dogs race around to his side, sniffing and panting, tongues hanging out of their mouths as they greet him. Steve bends down to give them a group hug, being practically bowled to the ground as they swarm him excitedly. Bucky’s heart grows three sizes and thumps unevenly in his chest, filling his throat.

Steve stands, calming the dogs down enough to step away from them and look up towards the house. The moment he sees Bucky his whole face lights up and he _grins_ and waves, the loveable dork. Bucky drops down another step, unable to control the need to hug his best guy. Steve walks towards him and Bucky has to force himself not to run as he meets him in the middle.

Steve cups Bucky’s cheek immediately, still grinning. “Hey, Buck,” he murmurs, eyes dancing with barely controlled happiness.

Bucky’s got his arms around him and he didn’t even realise. “Hey,” he breathes, like a dork.

Steve snickers and pulls him down, planting a kiss right on the mouth. Bucky whines into it unashamedly and presses their bodies flush together, desperate to get closer. They pause, faces still close and Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles up at Bucky. “Missed you,” he says.

“Love you,” Bucky whispers back, knocking their foreheads together and grinning.

Steve’s eyes go wide and he bursts out laughing, absolutely taken aback and delighted. It’s the first time Bucky’s said it. “I love you too, you ass,” Steve says, pressing another quick kiss to Bucky’s lips.

“Okay, you two! We still have to get Steve’s stuff inside!” Sam calls out, though there’s an undertone of warmth in his voice.

Bucky looks up, having to tear himself away from Steve’s eyes, to find Clint clutching his stomach as he laughs at Sam’s face, which is an interesting mixture of disgust and delight. Bucky pokes his tongue out at Clint and steps away from Steve, hand sliding down Steve’s arm to entwine their fingers.

“Shall we?” Bucky asks, glancing down at Steve.

Steve grins up at him. “Ya gonna carry me over the threshold?” he teases.

Bucky’s eyes flash at the challenge and Steve’s face drops. “Too late!” Bucky exclaims, scooping Steve up in his arms and grabbing one of his bags from Sam.

“Bucky!” Steve protests, wiggling desperately although he’s laughing, head thrown back. Bucky wants to taste every inch of him.

Clint’s absolutely lost it on the stairs, gasping for breath as Bucky walks past him, Steve and bag still in hand. “Watch your head,” Bucky warns, turning sideways to gracefully carry Steve over the threshold and into his house. “Home sweet home!” he shouts, causing Cherub to let out a loud, excited bark of agreement.

“You’re the worst,” Steve huffs, though his face is flushed and shining with happiness.

Bucky grins. “I’m the best,” he retaliates, setting Steve down and pressing a kiss to his cheek, refraining from rubbing himself all over the guy like a cat.

Steve rolls his eyes, taking his bag from Bucky. “Ass,” he says.

“You know there’s still two bags to get!” Sam calls from outside.

Bucky looks out at him where he’s sat down next to Clint and then back at Steve. Steve’s got a look on his face that screams ‘scheming’. Bucky narrows his eyes at him, trying to gage what he’s planning. Steve winks at him and walks out the door, dropping his bag by the entrance and heading to get the other two. Bucky follows, glancing at Sam and Clint who are in deep conversation but seem to be watching them.

“Did you want me to carry one?” Bucky asks Steve, who’s got both bags in his hands.

Steve shakes his head. “Stay here, there’s a few other things to grab,” he says, heading back inside to drop the bags off.

Bucky hovers by the ute, still trying to figure out what’s going on. He sends Sam and Clint a pleading look but they just snicker at him, the look on their faces saying that he’s gonna get what’s coming to him. Bucky scowls at the ground and waits for Steve to get back. When he does, Steve’s got nothing left to bring inside but Bucky.

“Aw, c’mon,” Bucky whines as Steve positions himself to pick Bucky up.

Steve rolls his eyes and, with a little bit of difficulty—I mean, Bucky weighs _a lot—_ scoops Bucky up and walks him towards the door. Clint’s cackling again and Sam’s just got this satisfied smile on his face. Bucky huffs and looks away, resigning himself to wrapping his arms around Steve’s neck and burying his face there, too.

“You kinda deserved it,” Steve murmurs, carrying him up the stairs and over the porch.

“Kinda did,” Bucky agrees, looking up at Steve once they’re inside.

Steve’s grinning down at him, eyes bright and happy. “Y’know what?” he prompts.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “What?”

“You’re a little bit cute,” Steve says and drops his grip on Bucky.

Bucky _yelps_ and he’ll never admit he did so. He catches himself in a crouch and stands back up, face incredulous. “I am the Winter Soldier!” he exclaims, eyes wide and ernest. “I’m not _cute.”_

Steve gasps out a laugh, cheeks flushed. “You are _so_ cute,” he continues, knocking a shoulder into Bucky’s and hauling him into a hug just to get close again.

Bucky whines, ready to protest more, but then Steve kisses him, swallowing any protest and distracting Bucky from arguing the point. Bucky groans into Steve’s mouth, going willingly and pulling him in close again. Steve laughs, pulling back just enough to blink up at Bucky, a mischievous look in his eye.

“What?” Bucky asks carefully.

Steve shrugs, expression giving way to soft happiness. “Nothin’, I’m just glad you’re here,” he says.

Bucky smiles, feeling warm all over. “Me, too,” he murmurs.

They eventually move upstairs and Bucky’s helps Steve unpack before Sam calls them down to help with dinner. They  _might_ appear in the kitchen looking a bit more flushed and ruffled than usual, but Sam does nothing but raise an eyebrow and file the information away to use against them later.

Dinner fills them up and Bucky finds out Steve feeds the dogs scraps under the table, too, which he points out with a nudge and a wink. Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Clint fills Steve in on everything he’s missed while the two wash up, leaving Sam and Bucky to sit at the table, watching them with smiles on their faces.

“You’re good for each other, you know?” Sam murmurs, attention turning to Bucky.

Bucky’s still watching Steve, who moves around Lucky—who is forever under their feet, content to stay as close as possible—with the ease of someone who has been doing it for years. “I like to think so,” Bucky replies.

Sam nods, looking away. “You’d better not hurt him, Barnes. We’ve gotten used to you being here already.”

“It’s the last thing I’d do,” Bucky says seriously, turning his head to look at Sam.

A smile curls at Sam’s lips. “I know.”

And that’s that. Steve senses his name coming up in conversation and glances over at them, a furrow between his brows. He meets Bucky’s eyes, a question in his gaze. Bucky gives him a reassuring smile, all warm and content. Steve grins back, satisfied, and returns to the conversation with Clint.

Sam lets out a low laugh, relaxing into his chair. Bucky glances over at him, then back at Steve. He takes a moment to revel in the fact that he’s safe. He’s happy. There is nothing bad here. He is finally, truly, free.  

* * *

 


	7. Epilogue

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

One thing Bucky learns during the six months he’s spent on the farm with Steve is that he’s found the kind of love you’ll never stumble across more than once in your lifetime. The way he loves Steve is indescribable, but it feels like a lucid dream all wrapped up in warmth and safety. Of course, it’s not always like that, but whenever Bucky stalks off to cool down after a particularly vicious argument he takes a step back and realises how lucky he is. 

The arguments are usually about the other’s pig-headedness (Steve) and being self-sacrificing in ways that result in putting themselves in unnecessary danger (Bucky). They always end up apologising and grumbling their way through ways to solve the problems. Their communication is a lot better than it was in the beginning. 

A lot of truths come out in the six months they’ve been together. Bucky explains more in depth his life story—including how he was actually lost in a forest and not working on the streets during part of the festival time—and Steve reveals a lot more of his backstory. Countless night are spent in each other's arms just  _ talking.  _ It’s one of Bucky’s favourite things to do. Steve is endless and all-consuming. 

That’s another thing Bucky’s trying to work on. Steve says not to put him on a pedestal—he’s not  _ perfect  _ and neither is he a god. He’s human and he loves Bucky and they’ve had the conversation about Bucky becoming attached to Steve because he was nice to Bucky. Bucky reminds him of his friends in Bucharest—tells him about them, too. Which in turn prompts him to write them letters reassuring him that he’s okay and to thank them again for their friendship. He adds Steve’s return address on an afterthought. 

Turns out Bucky’s got a natural green thumb. He’s the designated gardener on the farm, spends hours working with the crops and the veggies and then crawls into bed to research more gardening tips when the day is done. He loves being able to use his ability to retain information easily for something other than being a weapon. 

With the past of being a weapon, it takes a while for Bucky to get comfortable with people seeing his metal arm. It gets  _ hot  _ in Troupsburg and long sleeves just start making him grumpy and irritable. Steve helps. He’d first gotten Bucky to remove his whole shirt while Steve finished up the tattoo they’d started in London. Bucky’d been twitchy and on edge most of the time, but he’d had to relax for the actual tattooing process. His metal arm had lain deathly still at his side. 

Steve had told him countless times that the arm didn’t scare him, but Bucky had countered that it wasn’t about that. It was a constant reminder of what he had been and what had been done to him. Steve had countered that with Bucky needing a therapist. Bucky had snorted and challenged Steve with finding someone willing to council the Winter Soldier. They’re still on a standstill with that. 

Aside from all the obvious problems they’re still dutifully working through, things are. Good. Better than good. Bucky’s living on cloud nine. Steve’s right there with him. They’ve spent countless hours learning each other’s bodies and Bucky’s asked Steve to tell him the stories of his tattoos over and over again. Steve’s always been only too happy to comply. 

Bucky likes to sit between Steve’s legs, back to his warm chest as Steve runs his fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the ends. By now Bucky knows all of Steve’s tattoos off by heart so when Steve tells him the stories of each one he can see the image dancing behind his eyelids.

“No, you move,” Steve murmurs, voice low as the evening draws to a close. The curtains are drawn and the log fire downstairs is burning on high, warming the lounge where the dogs sleep. “The oak tree on my side symbolises strength and keeping yourself grounded as well as caring a place for yourself in the world and standing your ground to keep yourself there. I will move for no one.”

Bucky hums. He knows this story. “'Plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth and tell the whole world, no,  _ you _ move,” he echoes. 

“Exactly,” Steve rasps, something fond in his voice. “The boat,” he continues, “is for my father and his regiment. Their insignia is a ship.”

“The 107th,” Bucky says. 

Steve tugs a little more on Bucky’s hair, a smile that Bucky can’t see spreading on his face. “My shield is for my ancestors. It’s respect for them and where they came from. So is the celtic knot.”

“Your ma was Irish,” Bucky whispers, eyes flickering open as he tilts his head to look up at Steve. 

Steve’s eyes are soft. He presses a kiss to the crown of Bucky’s head and hums a yes. “And my  _ blossom,”  _ he huffs out, a laugh creeping into his voice. “New beginnings. It’s a blooming tree. It represents so many things.” He tapers off, clearly waiting for Bucky to finish. 

Bucky smiles at him. “Your transition,” he says. Steve nods. Bucky continues, voice breathy. “Your first tattoo apprenticeship. Your friendship with Dernier and the festival that came from it. The Seven Lions.” Bucky pauses, eyes becoming half-lidded. “Me,” he finishes. 

Steve brings a hand up under Bucky’s chin and guides him to his lips, pressing their mouths together and replying with a kiss so passionate it curls Bucky’s toes. Steve draws back and Bucky whines, chasing him, but Steve just holds him still, grinning. “And I really do like flowers,” he says. 

“And your lion?” Bucky prompts, pressing a hand to the great wild-maned tattoo of a lion on Steve’s chest. 

Steve sighs, running a thumb over Bucky’s own tattoos on his face. “Bravery. Strength. The will to conquer any fear and to carry on when everything is trying to get me to stop.”

“You’re the bravest guy I know,” Bucky murmurs, shuffling up Steve’s body just enough to capture his lips in a fire-fueling kiss again. 

Steve’s responding moan is muffled and he wraps his arms back around Bucky, pulling him in close and delving into his mouth. Bucky whimpers, fighting to get closer, but Steve shushes him and calms the kiss, his tongue running along Bucky’s lower lip. Bucky shifts against Steve, spinning around and fitting his thighs over Steve’s, grinding his hips down against his just to be cheeky. 

Steve groans, pulling back from the kiss entirely, one palm on Bucky’s chest to steady him. “God, you’re so—” he’s cut off by Bucky sliding down his body and burying his face in Steve’s crotch. Steve chokes at the sight of Bucky looking up at him through his eyelashes, entire demeanor pleading and wanting. “God,” Steve swears again, hand coming up to grab at Bucky’s hair. “Do you even know what you do to me, baby?” he whispers. 

Bucky whines, tugging at Steve’s boxers and helping him shuffle out of them. “Please,” he begs, tongue darting out to wet his swollen lower lip. 

“Fuck,” Steve rasps, eyes half-lidded and cheeks flaming. “You don’t have to ask, Buck,” he assures him, fingers tightening in Bucky’s hair, guiding him downwards. 

Bucky moans, breathing in Steve’s musky scent before leaning in and lapping a thick stripe over him. Steve gasps and pushes back against the headboard, hips canting upwards. Bucky moves to Steve’s thighs, pressing heated kisses against the skin there, tongue flicking over the skin to taste. Steve groans, hand tugging at Bucky’s hair softly but enough to let him know where he wants Bucky’s mouth. 

Bucky nips at one of the lovebites he’s made on Steve’s inner thigh before moving back and pressing a kiss just above where Steve wants him most. “Bucky—” Steve breathes, eyes wide and staring right at Bucky. Steve looks feverish, chest flushed and cheeks rosy, his skin slick with sweat. “God, Buck, stop teasing.”

Bucky grins all sly before he’s delving in, licking and sucking at Steve as though his life depends on it. It’s messy and sensual, sending Bucky himself wild. He’s keenly aware of the aching arousal between his own legs. 

“Buck— _ baby _ —I’m gonna come,  _ God _ ,” Steve gasps, hand tugging at Bucky hair again, sending Bucky wild. 

Bucky doubles his efforts, bringing up his metal hand to slide a cool finger into Steve, knowing just what it does to him. Steve yelps, breaths falling heavy and desperate, gasping into the air above him and writhing under Bucky’s touch. Bucky groans at the noise Steve makes when he comes, licking and sucking him through it. He keeps going till Steve’s shuddering and pushing at Bucky’s shoulders, signalling him to let up. Bucky sits up, thumb coming up to wipe at the corner of his lips, sucking that same thumb into his mouth when he catches Steve watching him with such an intense, dreamy look on his face it makes Bucky’s dick twitch. 

Steve sighs, content, floaty and warm. “Look at you, baby,” he murmurs.

Bucky whines; knows how he looks. His hair’s a tangled mess, his mouth is red and obscene, covered in spit and Steve’s pleasure. His cheeks are ruddy, eyes glassy. Steve groans at the sight, hand coming up to cup Bucky’s face and pull him in close, kissing him deeply, tongue twining with Bucky’s own. 

“Please, Steve, want you,” Bucky pants the moment Steve releases him. 

Steve makes a low sound in his throat, thumb brushing over Bucky’s bottom lip. “Gonna open yourself up for me, baby? Or do you want me to do it?” he asks, knowing how Bucky loves both options. Loves the feeling of Steve watching Bucky prep himself, also loves Steve doing it. 

Bucky bites his lip, eyelids sliding shut as Steve reaches a hand around Bucky, fingers finding the band of Bucky’s underwear and tugging. “You?” Bucky croaks, already sounding wrecked and he hasn’t even been touched yet. 

Steve huffs out a noise of agreement, already moving to get what they need. Their lube is the self-warming kind; neither of them like the feeling of cold lube. When Steve turns around he nearly doubles over at the feeling he gets at the sight of Bucky. His boy’s all spread out on the sheets, clothes completely gone, gorgeous body and tattoos on display. He’s got a vixen-like grin on his face, one that has Steve’s heart fluttering. 

“God,” Steve swears, climbing back onto the bed with him. 

Bucky rolls onto his back, legs spread, expression full of want. It’s driving Steve just as wild as it always does. Steve uncaps the lube, settling between Bucky’s legs and running a hand up his inner thigh. Bucky shivers and Steve scrapes his nails lightly over Bucky’s skin just to see him do it again. 

“Alright, Buck?” Steve checks in, heart leaping at the way Bucky’s immediately nodding, desperation colouring his expression like he thinks Steve’s going to stop. 

“So good, Steve, please—” Bucky breaks off as Steve slides a lube-coated finger inside him, curling it just enough to get Bucky’s hips arching off the sheets. 

Steve hums, leaning down to press a kiss to Bucky’s hipbone. “What’s our word?” he asks. 

Bucky groans, grinding down on Steve’s finger, already wanting more. “Brooklyn,” he gasps. “Steve, please,” he begs again and with definite consent, Steve starts working Bucky open, his entire being trained in on the way Bucky writhes and gasps and moans. 

From the first time they made love, Steve’s learnt over and over again how sensitive Bucky is, how much he likes to be taken care of. Steve’s only too happy to give Bucky what he needs. It doesn’t take long, but Steve’s careful that he’s opened Bucky up enough to take him. Once he’s sure, he pulls his fingers out and leans over Bucky’s body, capturing his lips in a searing kiss, swallowing Bucky’s whine. 

“You good, baby?” Steve asks, pressing their foreheads together and searching Bucky’s gaze. 

Bucky smiles, the crinkles by his eyes making an appearance. “So good. Please fuck me now?” he asks, the look on his face telling Steve that he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Steve groans, eyes falling shut. “You drive me wild, y’know that?” he murmurs. 

Bucky giggles, hands coming up to wrap around Steve’s torso. “I love you,” is all he says. 

“I love you too,” Steve says seriously, pressing one more kiss to Bucky’s lips before pulling back and sitting up.

Bucky watches through half-lidded eyes as Steve secures the straps before coating his dick with lube and shuffling forwards. Bucky lifts his hips, wrapping his legs around Steve’s waist and letting out a rough breath as Steve folds his body over Bucky’s, encasing him in his arms. Bucky can’t help but grin as Steve kisses Bucky slow and sweet before reaching down to guide himself into Bucky. 

Bucky groans at the slick slide, dropping his head back onto the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw slack as Steve bottoms out. “God,” he breathes, hands coming up to grab at Steve’s. 

Steve huffs out a low laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles down at his boy. “Good, baby?” he asks, voice rough at the sight of Bucky all spread out beneath him, taking his dick so well. 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, nodding. “Please move,” he pleads, eyes snapping open as Steve scrapes his teeth over the skin over Bucky’s throat. 

“Anything for you,” Steve breathes, before rolling his hips and starting to fuck in and out of Bucky. 

Bucky lets out a whine, body moving against Steve’s to meet his thrusts, unable to help the pants that start falling from his lips. Steve sucks a bruise into the spot beneath Bucky’s ear as he moves quicker, becoming breathless in no time. With one hand on Bucky’s dick, jacking him in time with his thrusts and the other intertwined with one of Bucky’s, Steve brings Bucky to the edge in no time. 

“Stevie—Steve— _ Steve—”  _ Bucky gasps, his lover’s name the only thing bouncing around in his pleasure-addled brain as it whites out. 

When Bucky comes back, still spinning from the mind-blowing orgasm, Steve’s slowly pulling out, one hand petting at Bucky’s hair. “Shh, I’m here Buck, God you’re so good to me baby,” he’s murmuring. 

Bucky hums as his lips curl up into a sleepy, cat-like smile. “Lo’ you,” he manages. 

Steve shifts on the bed and Bucky can hear him undoing straps before he’s laying down beside Bucky, a comforting heat along Bucky’s side. Steve presses a wet kiss to Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky can feel the smile Steve’s wearing. “Love you too, Buck,” Steve says. “Wanna get cleaned up?” he asks. 

“Bath?” Bucky perks up, turning his head to look at Steve hopefully. 

Steve grins, eyes sparkling with happiness. “Sure, baby, lemme go run it,” he says, beginning to roll away from Bucky. 

Bucky whines at the loss, making grabby hands at Steve. “Don’t be long,” he pleads. 

“Just a moment, Buck,” Steve promises. “Stay warm for me,” he adds, covering Bucky with the sheet. 

Bucky hums, reaching out to hunt down a kiss. Steve giggles, cheeks flushed and gives him one, a lingering press of the lips. Bucky sighs into it, body going pliant again as he sinks back into the mattress. Steve pads into the en-suite to run a bath, leaving Bucky smiling up at the ceiling, positively glowing, basking in the bubble of chest-bursting joy. 

Things are good and things will continue to be good for a very, very long time.  

  
**The End.**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, it means the world to me. Hope you've enjoyed :) Special thanks again to everyone mentioned in the beginning! It's been a ride.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading this. I hope you've all liked it as much as I enjoyed writing it! You can find me on tumblr at [buckyskillingme](http://buckyskillingme.tumblr.com). If you liked my work maybe consider [buying me a coffee?](https://ko-fi.com/A8881KUI)
> 
> [Also - artist's ko-fi!!](https://ko-fi.com/A0401K6V)


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